


Fading Dreams & Harrowing Nightmares

by DarkBlue



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Adoribull - Freeform, Adoribull Big Bang 2020, Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Edging, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:33:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 29,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25595839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkBlue/pseuds/DarkBlue
Summary: Dorian is selected to be the Inquisitor's team during the charge at Adamant Fortress. Upon his return, the Inquisition requires him to undergo a Harrowing - his first. The Iron Bull strongly disagrees.
Relationships: Female Cadash/Sera, Female Inquisitor/Sera, Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus
Comments: 33
Kudos: 122
Collections: Actually Adoribull Fic, The Adoribull Big Bang 2020





	Fading Dreams & Harrowing Nightmares

**Author's Note:**

> This 👏🏼 is 👏🏼 way 👏🏼 too 👏🏼 long 👏🏼 for 👏🏼 one 👏🏼 chapter. OH WELL.  
>   
> Look I am simple. I am soft for hurt/comfort injured/caregiver tropes okay.  
>   
> ART! There's art! My first ever art in a fic! Art by growstheoak on tumblr! ITS VERY GREAT.
> 
> TW: allusions to assisted suicide (skip over if you read about patterned tile)
> 
> Many many thanks to MuchyMozzarella for putting together Adoribull Big Bang 2020!

“Let me see! Let me see!” Sera bounced on her toes, hanging half on Dorian’s shoulder as Cadash held her like a buoyant balloon by one hand.

“No, it’s too fragile,” Dorian said, sniffing.

“Open it,” said Cadash in a way that made Dorian glance sidelong at her.

She smiled innocently, her dark round face with its burned brands making her eyes stand out brightly. Dorian had a suspicion Cadash used this voice in other contexts with Sera, but didn’t say so.

“What did _you_ get him?” he countered instead.

Cadash wrinkled her nose, like she knew what Dorian was doing. “I had Dagna make him a greataxe.”

“Yeah?” Dorian was impressed in spite of himself. The materials alone were costly.

“Yeah,” laughed Cadash. “It’s got a handle of dragon bone from that one we slew on the island in the Storm Coast. And I ripped the heart out of an arcane horror for Solas to make a rune of corruption.”

Dorian shook his head, smiling. “He’s going to flip for that.”

“No fair!” protested Sera. “You haven’t guessed what _I_ got him.”

“What did you get him?” Dorian asked dutifully.

“No idea. I was hoping you’d guess, yeah, and then I’d get an idea.”

Dorian sighed and tucked the small wooden crate under one arm.

“Tell us, at least,” Sera begged.

“It’s a statue."

“A statue?”

“Of a dragon,” Dorian clarified. “The first one he killed with Cadash.”

Cadash’s full lips pulled into a huge smile. “The one in the Western Approach? Yeah, we ran around forever baiting that one. The others have been much easier to find.”

“Bull really loved that day. He talks about it all the time.” Dorian was still a bit put out that he hadn’t been on that campaign, but he wouldn’t admit it to the Inquisitor.

“That’s really sweet,” Cadash said, still smiling in a way that was making Dorian want to hit her. It was suffocating, the way she and Sera fawned over him and Bull. They were just friends. And on top of that they hadn't been messing about long, only a few drunken fumbles, but enough so that sharing a tent on campaign wasn’t odd. They weren’t keeping it a secret, but it was strictly for fun. Dorian wasn’t sure how to get a birthday present for someone that didn't fall into the regular relationship categories.

“Let me see it! Open it!” Sera was back to bouncing on Dorian’s shoulder.

“Careful,” Cadash said warningly.

Dorian glanced sidelong at her again, and she stretched out a smile.

“It’s packed away,” Dorian said apologetically. “Even I haven’t opened it.”

This was, technically, a lie, but it seemed safer than to admit it to Sera.

“Are you taking it to him now?” asked Cadash.

“No, I’ll bring it to the party,” said Dorian quickly, also not glancing at Sera. They both knew he would have to keep this box guarded until then.

“But that’s _ages_ away."

“It’s in two weeks,” said Cadash, amused. “It gives you some time to find him a present.”

“What’dyou think he’ll want?”

“Weapons,” said Dorian, just as Cadash said:

“Dragons.”

Sera groaned, covering her ears. “Piss! I’ll have to think of something myself!”

“That is usually how birthday presents work,” Dorian pointed out dryly.

“He doesn’t even have a birthday, really!” protested Sera. “Didn’t Bull say they were all born in groups like?”

“Yes,” said Dorian stiffly. "The Tamassran control reproduction." The Qun sometimes baffled him. It seemed so alien.

“But he knows when he was born,” Cadash added, sensing Dorian’s hesitation. “They keep careful records.”

“Of everything,” Dorian said darkly.

Sera laughed delightedly. “Do you think Red Jennys would do well there?”

“No,” said both Cadash and Dorian together. Dorian, horrified, Cadash, soberly.

“What?”

“Anyone who dares to complain will be reprogrammed.”

“Sera,” said Cadash, but urgently, quietly. “Don’t even think about it. I know you’ll want to, now that I’ve said that, but you won’t get anyone embarrassed in the Qun.”

“No?”

“No,” said Cadash flatly. “Only people killed.”

Sera looked mulish and hot-headed all at once, and Dorian quickly distracted her with: “You could get him some new trousers.”

“Pants?”

“Yes, he ripped through a pair in the Exalted Plains. Got caught in one of the pikes when you tried to climb over,” he teased Cadash.

She rolled her eyes. “I can’t help it if I can jump and he can’t.” Cadash was an excellent archer, able to somersault a truly staggering amount given her size. She had managed to wriggle between a pike line into the trenches with a jump, and when the rest of her party tried to follow, Solas had used a barrier, Cole had blinked after her, and Bull had forced his way through, splintering the wood and ripping his pants.

“But his pants are so big,” giggled Sera. She waggled her eyebrows at Dorian. “Lucky you.”

“You can steal the ripped ones,” Cadash said, with a thread of humorous suggestion to her voice that Sera immediately latched onto.

“Nick ‘em, yeah?” Sera said eagerly. “That’s good. For sizes and wotnot. I can do that.”

“If you can find a tailor who can put something together,” said Dorian doubtfully.

“I can find anyone," Sera laughed. “For anything. In half the time Josie can.”

Cadash eyed her appraisingly. “I may ask you for that.”

Sera rolled her eyes. “Like you’re better; _smuggler_!”

“I resent that.”

“Yeah, yeah. Well, let’s go!” she said, her mood mercurial, tugging on Cadash’s arm. “I’ve got things to nick!”

“I’ve got a small council meeting."

“Ugh,” Sera scrunched up her nose. “The _war_ table with Scary Lady and Grumpy Face.”

“Yes. And I’m late!” Cadash waved even as Sera bolted the opposite direction, leaving Dorian standing in the middle of the great hall a few steps from the throne.

He sighed and made his way to his quarters. Inside he locked the door _and_ bespelled it so that Sera couldn’t barge in unexpectedly before he unpacked the statuette again. The whole thing was only about two hands in any direction, but was carved out of pink dawnstone that Dorian had been carefully extracting on every tromp with Cadash. Varric, especially, had been insufferable about the ribbing, but had been good-natured enough to help him dig when Dorian pointed this out.

“This is specist, you know,” said Varric grouchily. “Making a dwarf dig for ore.”

Dorian glanced at him, unsure if Varric was serious.

“I’m joking!” Varric protested, shoving Dorian hard so that he staggered. “Jeez, between you and Solas – “

“Don’t,” Dorian had said in injured tones. “Don’t lump me in with _Solas_!”

“Chuckles isn’t all bad,” Varric said, carefully crumbling the rock around the pink ore. “I think he cares, at least. Intensely.”

“Intense is a good word,” Dorian had agreed, and they had grinned at one another.

Now Dorian looked over the statue. It was a good likeness of the dragon, which he had pulled from Vivienne’s memory with permission. He had placed the image in a stone and given the stone to a very surprised and uneasy carver. The reference point had ensured the miniature was perfectly in scale, wings outstretched. The dawnstone was so thin in some places Dorian could see translucent light shining from behind it. He packed it carefully back into the box full of straw and then put it in a corner of his room, stacking books on top of it and throwing a spare robe half over it as if it were a crate of no consequence.

* * *

“Be careful with that,” Dorian panted.

The Iron Bull smiled ruefully, leaning back in to kiss him senseless. “You have too much stuff.”

“That’s not an apology.”

“It wasn’t meant to be.”

Iron Bull’s hands were skimming over Dorian’s skin. Dorian shivered as Bull leaned in and began licking stripes up his neck. Without warning he hoisted Dorian up against the wall and leaned in, using his body weight to pin him there, Dorian’s legs held open against Bull’s thigh.

Dorian pulled the horns to him, capturing his mouth.

“You missed me?”

“Do shut up.”

“I think you missed me.”

Dorian made a noise in his throat when Bull slid one hand under Dorian’s robes. “You were on campaign a while.”

“Three weeks.”

“Yes, and I – “

“Shit.”

“Don’t say- “

“Already?”

“I said- “

“Just me then, huh? You didn’t sleep with anyone while I was gone?”

“You’ve rather ruined me for other men.”

Bull beamed at him, and Dorian grabbed his face again.

“Do shut up,” he mumbled against his lips.

“You remember the- “

“ _Katoh_.”

Bull stopped, pulling back, his lips pressed together to repress something, but Dorian smiled fondly, cupping his face.

“I told you I remembered the safeword.”

Bull’s face crashed into irritation and relief.

“You brat!”

“That’s me.”

“Come here.”

Dorian wasn’t sure he could remember how to breathe with Bull’s tongue in his mouth. He whimpered, shivering and bucking against Bull. Bull drew back, studying Dorian’s overblown pupils.

“You want to come now?”

“Of course.”

“I was going to take my time with you. Make up for- “

“No.”

“Not much fun.”

“I’m very fun.”

“I thought- “

“I have more than one in me.”

“Yeah?”

“And you have permission to take as long as you need for the second one.”

“Permission?” The Iron Bull’s blue ringed eye glittered as he drew his head back from Dorian’s desperate mouth.

“Yes, permission,” said Dorian fondly, cradling Bull’s face. “You know, that thing you often give me?”

“I’ll give you- “

“Yes, yes, you’re very scary and tough and big. We can play on that after.”

“You needy son of – “

“I can do it myself.”

“Not as fun that way.”

“No.” Dorian waited a moment, very gently rippling his hips from where they were pinned. “It’s not.”

Bull groaned. “Fine.”

“Yes?”

“Yes.”

“See that?”

“What?”

“Permission goes both ways.”

“You fucking brat.”

“Fuck me later, get me off now.”

Iron Bull pushed two hands under Dorian’s robes, slotting them between the hard ridges of Dorian’s ribs. Bull pushed in to find them, and then sucked Dorian’s neck as he thrashed helplessly.

“You’ll have to rub yourself off,” Bull growled into his ear. “Go on then, be filthy.”

Dorian half smiled, but the lust was pounding in his ears and he put both hands around Bull’s neck and pulled himself close, trying to arch against the pinning weight and feeling the drag of Bull’s hard thigh between his legs.

“I- " he tried to say.

“Yeah,” and Bull’s voice was equally hoarse. “I know.”

Desperately, Dorian dug his fingers into Bull’s back as Bull began slowly and ruthlessly to push his own erection against Dorian back into the wall as Dorian tried to slide down his thigh.

It was exquisite torture, and it didn’t take them long to find a rhythm. Dorian was so close just from Bull’s mouth on his that it was only self-respect that made him hold off from coming like a teenager too early. By Bull’s smirking face, Dorian knew he hadn’t succeeded very well as he let out a shaky, silent breath, the smell of Bull filling his head.

Iron Bull set him down gently, and Dorian’s legs almost gave way beneath him.

“I missed you,” Bull said quietly, observing him.

Dorian wished he wouldn’t observe him quite so closely. It was moments like these when it didn’t feel quite like friendship.

“Obviously,” he said instead.

Bull half smiled to himself. “Right.”

“Right. I have a bottle of wine.”

“Please.”

“Glasses?”

“Nah.”

“Naked?”

“Yep.”

Dorian pulled the wine out from under some clothes, nudging them with a foot towards the crate in an unhurried way. For good measure he shirked his trousers and robes on the floor and crawled into the rumpled bed while uncorking the wine with a spell.

“That’s handy,” Bull observed from the foot of the bed where he was bending to take off his knee brace. It clunked to the floor and was shortly followed by his shoulder holster.

“Ah, the iniquities of young mages getting wildly drunk."

“Give it here.” Bull climbed up the bed also, and Dorian tried not to notice the thick heaviness of him, laying flushed and full against his thigh as he drank.

Bull, damn him, always noticed.

“We’ll get there,” he promised.

Dorian plucked the bottle lightly from his fingers. “You shouldn’t drink it all.”

“Don’t like good things going to waste.”

“Obviously. You’re fucking me, for instance.”

“It would be a waste for you to go unfucked.”

“I quite agree.”

“I brought my kit.”

“Ambitious of you.”

“Well you did jump me just inside the door.”

“It’s very hard- “

“Ha.”

“Not quite what I meant, but it’ll do, I suppose.” Dorian took several more swigs of wine. “What’s in the kit?”

“Playthings.”

“Soft or hard today?”

“Was going to let you pick.”

“Hmm. Rope?”

“Of course.”

“Yes please.”

“Feeling bound up?”

“Hard not to, with evil ancient magisters and all that.”

“You’re not tied to this place.”

“Tied, I see what you did.”

“Give me that.”

Dorian settled his head against Bull almost without thinking about it, then froze in place when he realized he was showing _affection_.

Bull chuckled. “You don’t have to tense up, you know. Just because it’s not sex all the time.”

“This is my newest move. It’s called deer at dawn.”

“Yeah?”

“Oh yes. Quite effective.”

“How’s it go?”

“I do something colossally stupid and then sit there hating myself.”

“Well, that’s what the rope is for.”

“To hang myself?”

“Don’t be an ass.”

“You just said- “

“Go get the kit.”

“The wine?”

“I drank it.”

“You dirty whore.”

Bull beamed. “That’ll be five gold.”

“Think well of ourselves, obviously.”

“Give me that.” Bull grabbed the bag from Dorian’s hands and withdrew thin black rope.

Dorian smiled angelically at him.

* * *

“Dorian?” Dorian froze, sweating. Then called: “Yes?”

“Can you and the Iron Bull come to the War Room?”

Dorian burned with mortification that Leliana could so easily deduce who was with him. It wasn’t exactly a _secret_ but -

“Right now?”

“Take your time.”

“She’s lying,” Bull said from behind him.

Dorian tried to turn his head. “ _Obviously_.”

“Do I need to get Krem and the guys?” Bull called.

Dorian wanted to shove his hands over Bull’s mouth, preserve the possibility Leliana could be wrong, but his hands were fixed to the headboard.

There was the tinkling laugh of the Nightingale. “No. The Inquisitor just wants you.”

“Fuck,” said Dorian quietly.

“Not quite,” said Bull grimly behind him.

“Is she gone?”

“She is not,” Leliana answered. “But she is going. Five minutes, no more.”

Dorian rolled his eyes, but Bull called: “Right.”

They dressed in silence. Bull had to cut the rope, which Dorian knew he hated doing. It was ordered special from Val Royeaux and was cut only in fast-escape scenarios, and one time when Dorian had burned it off. He was still achingly hard, and he worried at his lip with his teeth as his frustrated hands struggled with his buckles.

Bull finished early and waited, but Dorian shook his head without speaking and Bull left first, to better preserve what dignity they had by staggering their arrival time.

Dorian breathed out, checking his reflection in the small gilt mirror on the wall – dearly bought – and then smoothed his mustache up at the corners. It was a silly habit, done to accentuate his interest in men, mostly to infuriate his father. It still made Dorian feel better.

He left his rooms and maneuvered through the interior of the castle, turning at the staircase into Josephine’s study.

“You too, huh?” Dorian teased Varric as they met up, matching pace. Dorian had only been in the War Room in a handful of times. Cadash usually held only her small council meetings there.

“Apparently it’s all of us,” said Varric, his smooth voice sounding uneasy.

“The whole Inquisition?”

“Ha, ha, very funny.”

“The inner circle?”

Varric nodded. “Some big plan against Corypheus. The next line of attack.”

Dorian felt his stomach flip at the thought. He hadn’t thought it was quite that serious, but when he opened the door and gestured Varric in front of him, he saw that they were almost the last to arrive. Cole popped in from somewhere, badly shaking Cullen who gripped the table in his gloved hand.

Cadash was in the middle of the space on the opposite side of the table, turning in a slow circle in the crowded room. Dorian could see her reflection in the dark glass of the windows. There was no moon.

“I called you all here,” she said slowly. “Because we have a chance.”

“To do what?” Sera asked, almost as if she was filling in a script.

Cadash smiled sardonically at her, as if she knew what Sera was doing. “We have the chance to take Adamant Fortress.”

Dorian felt like he was back in Tevinter’s court. No one actually _gasped._ No one fluttered a fan in front of their face, swooned or declared. But it had that silent feel.

“I’m going in first,” said Cadash firmly, even as this time several voices raised in objection. “Stroud and Hawke are coming with me,” she continued over the tumult, as if no one had spoken at all.

“And me!” Sera added aggressively.

“I need hard fighters,” said Cadash, ignoring Sera.

“Like me!”

“And magic casters.”

“Not me.”

“Vivienne?”

And Vivienne looked so startled to be called upon, she said: “My dear?” with the tone of surprise that she was chosen out of the three mages as the most battle-ready.

“I need you and Josephine to coordinate the logistics,” said Cadash, and Vivienne’s shoulders came down, letting her high white collar settle back around her ears.

Josephine was already nodding, taking copious notes.

“We’ll have a strike team first, that’s me- “

“And me!”

“Bull and his Chargers will come in second on cleanup crew.” Bull nodded in resignation, unsurprised. Cleanup was a distasteful job, and Dorian didn’t envy him. It mostly involved slitting throats and riffling through pockets for intelligence.

“I will accompany him,” said Cassandra clearly.

Cadash paused, surprised, and everyone turned to stare at the Seeker. She, per usual, was not flinching, but Dorian thought her pursed lips looked white against her face, drawing out the exaggerated hollow of her cheek scar.

“Yes,” Cadash agreed after a long moment, which surprised Dorian. Cassandra was a heavy fighter, with both her and Bull on cleanup, that left –

“Blackwall will come with Hawke and Stroud. I need the Wardens on my side,” Cadash continued, as if Cassandra hadn’t interrupted. “And Dorian, will you- “

She trailed off, though Dorian knew it would be impossible to refuse.

“Of course.” It made sense, really to be on the strike team as the one who did actual lightning strikes and fire mines.

“And me?” Solas asked lightly, crossing his arms.

“Go with Cullen, he’s leading the army to do the hard fighting and set up perimeters.”

Dorian understood that meant that Solas would be on hand to mop up any survivors with healing magic, a thoughtfulness from Cadash she didn’t often let people see, preferring to seem strong and united against the enemy. It was no surprise that a third of the inquisition forces were those she had saved and drafted.

“What about the rest of us?” complained Varric good-naturedly.

“I was going to ask you to come with me,” teased Cadash. “Two for the price of one, with Bianca.”

“No!” Sera actually stamped her foot. “ _I’m_ going.”

“Love,” said Cadash, and the rest of the inner circle looked away or cleared embarrassed throats, pretending a lover’s spat wasn’t about to break out under Sera’s childish temper. “You know the Carta is coming.”

“So?”

“So, they want to meet Red Jenny.”

“So there are about a hundred other Jennys,” scowled Sera. “Get one of them.”

“I was going to ask Varric to meet them,” and Cadash’s eye twinkled just as Varric opened his mouth to refuse. “But apparently, that would be _specist_ ,” finished Cadash.

Sera’s huge indrawn breath blew out of her, frustrated and defeated.

Cadash smiled imperceptibly, her Carta brands shiny and taut in the torchlight playing over her face.

“Plus, there’s a bounty on my head,” Varric added helpfully. “Somewhat courtesy of my idiot brother. I believe it’s kill on sight.” He beamed like this was something to be proud of.

“This isn’t the time to be blind,” said Cadash. “We can’t focus everything on Adamant and lose sight of running the rest of the Inquisition. Leliana is ready to take advantage of our very loud distraction to make a run on Corypheus’ people.”

“I’m helping,” beamed Cole.

Of everyone besides Solas, Leliana had taken most to Cole. It didn’t matter (much) that he was a demon. He was useful. He could instantly transport letters and codes between places, run messages, and pull secrets from waking people’s minds. Leliana had already given him a little silver crow for his leather armor, but Cole had affixed it to the wall in the Herald’s rest, like some sort of décor above a mantelpiece, absolutely and foolishly proud of it. 

“Meet with the Carta,” said Cadash firmly, and in that tone of voice that made Bull glance at Dorian with a raised eyebrow. Dorian almost smiled. What was it that Bull said? That Sera played a limber game and he played a power game? Perhaps Sera wasn't quite limber enough to wriggle out of this one.

“Yessir Pissface,” Sera said sarcastically, but her lips were almost as tight as Cassandra’s.

Cadash ignored her. “Leliana and Cole will reconnoiter a mission while Corphyeus’ attention is diverted. I’ll take in the strikeforce with me, Dorian, Varric, and Blackwall. Cullen will lead the men to surround Adamant with Solas and secure the position. We’ll work together to clear floor by floor. Cassandra and Bull will take the Chargers as cleanup crew. Vivienne and Josephine are in charge of the logistics, transporting tents, food, and keeping Leliana in the loop. Am I missing anyone?”

No one spoke, and Cadash nodded. “We’re doing this tomorrow. We march as soon as Cullen tells me the troops are ready.”

Cullen glanced strangely at her. Dorian thought he could catch hints of surprise and admiration.

“Two hours, and we’re ready,” he told her.

Cadash nodded, and glanced at Dorian. “Two hours.”

* * *

Dorian glared at his belongings. What did one take when walking into almost certain death? He wondered if he should wear his best robes, or if that was consigning them to scraps as he’d certainly be spattered by gore and scorched. But if he died, he didn’t want to go out in the embarrassing yellow plaid that Dagna had made for him.

Stupid, _stupid_ Tevinter. It really was all of Tevinter’s fault for turning out a mage like Erimond. The name was a bitter taste on Dorian’s tongue. He wondered if the others in the party could see the pitiful parallels of Cadash taking him to square off against the magister. He supposed he could be comforted that at least she was taking Blackwall, given what they suspected was happening to the Grey Wardens.

Dorian didn’t take much. They weren’t exactly hiking to Orlais, and he knew he would sleep on the way. He felt bad for the poor bastards marching it. He figured they trained for this sort of endurance, and anyway, he was the one who would have to fight rage monsters, and not ordinary men. He belted on a pouch that he filled to an almost comedic size with lyrium potions. The caravan was already waiting, and Dorian could see the Iron Bull and his Chargers already loading into a second one that would follow behind. Cassandra was among the laughing, joking figures, but was doing neither.

“It’s odd that she volunteered for clean up,” Dorian said, half-abstractedly.

“Not really.” To his surprise, Varric neither smiled nor joked as his steady hazel eyes took in the Seeker over the distance. He was already seated, elbows on knees, on a bench in the cart, and Dorian quickly sat next to him as the driver clucked and urged the horses forward.

Sera was still sucking Cadash’s face from over the side of the cart, so they weren’t paying attention, and Blackwall was sitting white and pale, probably worried about his brethren, but he had his eyes closed almost as if in prayer or meditation.

“What do you mean?”

Varric glanced sidelong at Dorian. “You know she had to kill her brother?”

“Anthony?”

“No. Her apprentice.”

“Oh,” Dorian had vague memories of what Cadash had briefed on Caer Oswin, but he honestly hadn’t paid that much attention. Only Vivienne’s bright, unblinking eyes had told him something had deeply disturbed her. But Bastien was dead, and Dorian had put it down to –

“Daniel,” said Varric, after a long moment.

“What?”

“Daniel. That was his name.”

“The apprentice?”

Varric nodded. “She told me he signed up when he was just ten. Can you believe? Some noble families send their kids as young as six.”

“Cassandra wasn’t six,” said Dorian. He didn’t know Cassandra very well, but he knew enough to see that Bull admired her, in his way.

“No, she was late. Her parents were executed when she was about six or seven though.”

“Her parents were executed?” Dorian didn’t know why he was thriving on this scandal.

Cadash was listening, he could tell, but he could also tell none of this surprised her. She had taken Varric and Vivienne with her to Caer Oswin, and now Dorian wished he had paid more attention to what _hadn’t_ been said in the briefing, instead of so much about Seeker Lucius.

“Yeah,” said Varric, offhanded. “She was raised by her uncle. Sort of.”

“Sort of?”

“He didn’t do much of the raising,” Cadash put in unexpectedly. “Anthony mostly took care of her.”

“Her real brother,” Dorian hazarded.

Blackwall’s eyes opened. “Her _older_ brother.”

Dorian glanced at the cart behind them. He could not see Bull or Cassandra through the darkness, only the drivers and the horses pulling the caravan. But he felt odd to be talking about her so openly. But since Dorian had started this mess, he felt he couldn’t protest on the grounds of propriety.

“He died,” he knew this. A statement of fact.

Varric nodded, picking up the thread. “He was beheaded in front of Cassandra. She was twelve.”

“Beheaded?” Dorian was aghast. “In front of a child?”

“By blood mages,” Blackwall put in, unexpectedly nasty. “They needed dragon blood, and they wanted Anthony to get it.”

Dorian knew, without asking, these men had been Venatori. He felt unexpectedly ashamed and overwhelmed, trying to mentally catalogue every time Cassandra had spoken to him. If she hated him.

“Cassandra wanted to be a Templar,” Cadash said quietly. “But her uncle sent her to the Seekers instead. It was a strange decision, actually, since twelve is about the right age to begin training as a Templar, but too old for a Seeker.”

“Well, fuck,” said Dorian helpfully.

“Yeah,” agreed Blackwall, taking out a hip flask. “Woman’s tougher than dragon bone.”

“Seekers are tested at eighteen,” said Varric. “Cassandra tested at fifteen. She was the youngest ever to test.”

“It’s a yearlong vigil,” said Cadash. “She was sixteen when she passed.”

“And then she became the right hand of the Divine?” Dorian asked, faintly sarcastic.

“Oh no, the Seeker and I go way back,” Varric chuckled softly, but not as if he found it funny. “So I get why she wants to do clean up.”

“Because…of Daniel,” Dorian was still not putting the pieces together.

“She didn’t have any family left,” Blackwall helpfully grunted. “She had to make her own, out of the scraps. Her and Leliana, for instance. Never should have gotten along. Cats and…crows, I guess.”

“Cassandra would die for Leliana,” said Cadash coolly.

“Cassandra would die for any of us,” said Varric irritably. “That’s just the kind of person she is.”

“And Caer Oswin?” asked Dorian hesitantly.

Cadash fell silent, her jaw set. She picked up her quiver of arrows and began checking the fletching, as if the quartermaster would have let her have any but the most perfect.

“You know, you’re an only child,” said Varric, with almost a bite of rudeness.

“So it would seem,” Dorian kept his voice very dry, so as not to betray surprised hurt.

“So I don’t know if you can understand what it would feel like if the person you loved most in the world asked you to kill them.”

Dorian did not even try to answer, even as Varric nodded to himself. “I know. _I_ know.” He ran thick fingers over the rings he wore, instead of looking up. “The thing about love,” said Varric, half poetical even as he only half spoke to the cart. “The thing about love is that you know what someone’s greatest fear is. Their greatest weakness. And love is never asking them to do it. Knowing there’s a line there. The things you never say, even when you’re angry. Even when you’re hurting.”

Dorian blinked at him. His father's and his relationship was predicated on that line. On the careful storing up of hateful secrets to wound the other with during the next argument. If that was love, then …

No, best not to finish that thought.

“When you love your sibling, the thing you fear most is them getting hurt and you can’t stop it. Or maybe the second worst is doing the hurting.”

Varric wasn’t looking at anyone anymore. He was staring at his hands, as if not quite sure they were still clean and dry.

“So when they ask you to kill them, they _know_ what they’re asking. That it will mess you up beyond anything in the world could. Forever. And if they ask anyway, then that means they’re so far gone with hurt that your hurt can’t even outweigh it.”

Varric’s eyes turned up to the rest of them. “Can you imagine?”

Blackwall was staring hard at the trees passing. Cadash’s fingers had stilled on the fletching. Dorian wished he had never asked. Wished he wasn’t here.

“Anyway,” laughed Varric, rather strangely in the back of his throat. “Cassandra found the kid on the floor with a demon inside of him.”

“But Seekers-“ began Dorian.

“Not _inside_ of him. Not in his head. _Inside_ of him. In his gut. They made him eat it.”

Dorian gagged reflexively. He almost threw up in his mouth, but managed to repress it, his hold white knuckled on the bench seat.

“It was eating its way out of him, through his veins. He begged Cassandra. Begged her to- “

There was silence.

“I told her I would do it,” Cadash said into the unexpected hush. Only the cart wheels were rattling, and the Chargers were bellowing a distant traveling song behind them. Cadash looked up defensively. “What? I told her to stand over there. That I would – “

“She took off his head,” said Varric. “Vivienne was sick. The stench of the thing inside him was unbelievable. I’ve seen a mage get eaten up by a demon. But I’ve never seen… _that._ ”

“She took off his head.” Dorian didn’t quite manage the question. _Just like Anthony. Just like her parents._

“It was mercy,” said Cadash belligerently.

“It was something,” said Blackwall.

“Shut up,” said Varric, angrily. His hazel eyes were burning. “You don’t know what it’s like, when someone you love asks you that.”

Blackwall was silent a long moment, his blue eyes clear and full of something like shame. He dropped his gaze. “That’s true enough,” he grunted, and took another swig.

“Cutting throats is something like closure, I think,” said Varric into the silence. “Sort of against all of the people who’ve done things to her- " He clicked his teeth shut, glancing at Dorian.

“Oh it’s perfectly all right,” Dorian said irritably. “I’m not the person who did them. Needn’t get defensive on _my_ behalf.”

“Maybe we should all try to sleep,” said Cadash into the prickly silence.

“Yeah,” grumbled Blackwall. “This wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.”

Varric only threw a disgusted glance at Blackwall, though Dorian had never seen any animosity between the two before. But Blackwall had been unusually terse and rude since the arrival of Stroud, and Varric protective of Hawke.

Dorian elected to stay on the narrow wooden bench rather than fight for space on the floor of the caravan. He knew they were luckier than the Chargers, where everyone would have to sleep sitting up, leaning into each other’s warmth.

Dorian shivered as he stretched out. It wasn’t even fully dark. He watched the sky jolt slightly with the turning of the cart wheels. It was a long road, and he should sleep. But he missed the Iron Bull’s solid warmth. He shut his eyes and tried to catch strains of their song, to make him feel as if he was there amongst joy, instead of cold amongst anger.

But even as he tried to put himself in their place, he could only wonder who Cassandra was squashed between. What she was thinking about. If she noticed the silent, winking on overhead of distant stars.

And of course, Dorian wondered what the Iron Bull noticed.

* * *

It was evening of the following day when they arrived. Dorian only remembered the wind up before the attack in flashes. Having a small circle up with Cullen. Hearing the cries of people beginning to shoot arrows. The way Cadash had full drawn the bow to her cheek, cutting it with a bright smear of red as she let loose her first arrow.

Then it hadn’t mattered. Dorian had been raising corpses left and right, trying not to notice Varric and Blackwall’s winces while they threw themselves on a despair demon, sprinting from supply cache to siege point, listening to Blackwall encourage the Grey Wardens to fight with the Inquisition. Varric brightened considerably when Hawke joined them.

Dorian had never been introduced to Hawke, and from Varric’s stories had expected a scruffy haired man wielding a long knife and single handedly cleaning up the back alleys of Kirkwall’s lower districts. Therefore he was not expecting an armored woman with gold skin and a short ponytail wielding a bone warhammer as tall as she was. He made a face at Varric, who shrugged expansively. Cadash and Hawke barely exchanged ten words before they had burst through the doors with Stroud into the main courtyard.

The fool Grey Warden – Clarel – was letting a Tevinter magister bind a soul to her own. Dorian could see the hideous dried-blood color of dark magic twisting out of the old warden on his knees. Dorian wanted to shout: “He’s dying!” but felt it would be a bit redundant. The wardens were mute sheep, while Stroud and Blackwall glanced around in angry panic. The Inquisitor motioned for Blackwall to speak, and Dorian reflected he had never heard the man use so many words together before. Whatever he seemed to say worked, because there was a ripple of murmuring, as those assembled in the crowd began to doubt Erimond.

Then, everything went to shit.

“Get down!” bellowed Cadash, springing adroitly into a backflip. A huge gout of flame hit the pavement where her feet had been, and Dorian felt his shoulders jerk over his ears as a dragon flew past overhead. Distantly, he could hear muted screams, and he remembered Cullen had all his men just at their back. Somewhere, he just knew it, Bull was laughing victoriously, hoping to cut his way to this great beast.

Somehow knowing the Iron Bull would be excited helped calm Dorian’s racing heart, helped him take aim and begin the not-quite-thinking of battle, mostly flashes and instinct and spells and the bitter taste of lyrium at the back of his mouth.

“Come on!” Cadash panted. She looked rather worse for wear, but she popped one of those slow regeneration potions without a grimace. She started jogging, every step easier, as Blackwall followed just behind her, holding his shield as if he might shunt her small body behind it at the first sign of danger.

“This is fun, huh,” Varric blew out his breath noisily after the great purple beast stuck her head through what used to be a battlement window and almost fried them alive. Dorian prayed the corridor was strong enough to keep from collapsing as the dragon withdrew and Cadash darted forward.

The broad space at the battlement was the perfect dramatic backdrop for Clarel and Erimond to be engaged in a duel. Based on his previous unenthusiastic knowledge of Clarel, Dorian had expected her to die quickly. Instead, he was impressed in spite of himself with the Warden’s ability as she nearly managed to skewer Erimond before being smashed along the cobblestones with a wet sound of meat that made Dorian gag.

“That’s gotta hurt,” Varric observed, his voice resigned. They were going to have to fight both Erimond and the dragon. Cullen’s men would never get there in time.

Hawke determinedly twisted her gloved hands around the warhammer shaft.

“No, wait,” Cadash told her. “You and Stroud wait here.”

“That’s a stupid plan,” Blackwall cried angrily.

“A second wave plan is all I’ve got,” said Cadash grimly.

“Sera won’t forgive me if you die."

“I don’t think you’ll be around to forgive."

Blackwall blew a frustrated breath out of his beard. “Well what about them? You’ve got some arrows. Varric’s got that machine of his. We brought a mage along.”

“The mage has a name,” Dorian reminded him acidly.

“And I don’t think I’m going to shoot its eye out,” said Varric, rather doubtfully. “Even with Bianca.”

“Clarel!” Cadash cried suddenly, pointing. She darted out before Blackwall could grab her back, drawing the snaking attention of an enormous head. The dragon drew breath in, and Dorian cursed, charging after Cadash, determined to put up a barrier spell if it killed him. It probably would.

To Dorian’s astonishment, the old warden was using one shaky finger to point upwards towards Erimond. The bones in her arm were badly broken. Dorian had thought her smash had broken her neck instantly, and now felt revulsion and pity that she had been lying there in agony as she died.

Time slowed.

He could feel Blackwall charging beside him. Both of them had their weapons out. Dorian one hand and a staff towards Cadash, Blackwall with his shield in a bash. An arrow whizzed past Dorian’s left ear in slow motion and then everything exploded.

At first, Dorian wasn’t sure if it was because Varric like a fool had thrown a grenade in front of their whole party, but he saw Clarel’s limp arm fall. He didn’t give it a lot of thought as the dragon bore down and there was a horrible ominous cracking.

They ran for it. All of them, Blackwall turning an about face midcharge that was neither honorable or glorious but the smartest thing Dorian had seen the man do. Even Cadash was running, her legs working furiously back towards Varric. Dorian could see Stroud and Hawke gesturing madly, as if that would make any difference. They were running for Cadash. They were scooping Blackwall under one arm to propel him forward. They were going to get them all. And Dorian…slipped.

The ground was wrong. It wasn’t level. He tried to scramble to his feet and without warning Varric went tumbling past him. Only instinct made Dorian reach out and grab Varric’s boot. There was a horrible suction and popping sound, and he felt his shoulder dislocate. The pain came a moment too late, because it didn’t matter now, Varric’s weight had carried them both down and Dorian lost his grip of the cobblestones.

He was falling.

His numb fingers weren’t gripping Varric anymore, and Dorian was almost angry with the dwarf for causing his untimely death – and not even a pretty corpse in his best robes to bury – until he saw that the cobblestones were coming after them. It wouldn’t have mattered, either way.

Dorian felt afraid. Not really of dying, but of how much it would hurt.

He closed his eyes.

There was a lot of green light. A sound he knew well, of reality ripping.

He kept them closed.

There was a horrible buzzing sound of static, and then the ragged sound of breathing.

“Am I dead?” Varric’s voice complained, very near Dorian’s ear.

“How disappointing,” managed Dorian. The pain in his shoulder was tremendous. He thought of Clarel, not quite dead for moments of agony. How long would he last if he had miraculously survived the fall?

Dorian opened his eyes. Varric was upside down. Dorian checked to see if he was stuck, but it looked as if Varric was laying on a cobblestone floor, straight above Dorian. Dorian groaned and closed his eyes again.

“No you don’t,” snapped Cadash, and Dorian guiltily opened his eyes as he felt her hands on him. She put a bottle to his lips.

“Drink it.”

Dorian obeyed, thinking it would be an elfroot healing potion, but it was whisky. He gasped and sputtered as he realized too late that Stroud was on his other side and with a horrible wet pop his shoulder went back in his socket.

“Thanks,” he said shakily. It was supposed to be sarcastic, but he was watching Hawke help Varric up…or down…from where he had been flung.

“What’s going on?” Blackwall grunted, sitting up. He was to Dorian’s right. Literally, to his right of his vision, perpendicular to the floor.

“Are we dead?” Varric complained again.

“It wouldn’t hurt so much if we were dead,” Dorian assured him, but he was lying out his ass. He had never died before, so –

“Where are we?” Cadash was glancing around her, frowning. Her eyebrows were set, but Dorian could see a muscle in her jaw twitching, and he knew she was afraid.

Dorian glanced around with a more level head, then again.

“We’re…” Words failed him.

“In the Fade,” finished Hawke, also looking around her with some interest. “I think.”

“Really?” Varric was looking around him with renewed interest. “Wow. The way Solas goes on, you’d think it was paradise. What a dump.”

Dorian felt something like giddiness and something like panic burbling up in his throat. “No, you see, we can’t be in the Fade, because…because _you’re a dwarf_ ,” he finished angrily, staring accusingly at Cadash.

“I hadn’t noticed,” she said, her tone bored as she pulled on Blackwall’s hand to get him to his feet. He had lost his shield somewhere. Dagna was going to have to make him a new one.

Dorian almost laughed at himself. Like they were ever going to see Dagna again.

“Dorian,” Cadash’s voice was impatient. “Dissemble later.”

Dorian nodded faintly. He did feel like he was coming to pieces. “This is…the Dreaming Way,” he managed.

“The Dreaming Way?” Varric was skeptical.

But Hawke was nodding too. “Don’t you remember that dreamer Merrill met? The one that was always walking about in dreams? I went through the Fade that time.”

“No,” Dorian corrected, her finally managing to stagger to his feet merely to reiterate how completely and fucking impossible this was. “No, no, no, no, no, no, and ... no. You were in the Dreaming Way. The Fade you can access through dreams.”

“And we’re not?” asked Stroud, scratching his mustache nervously.

“We can’t be,” snapped Dorian. “I’ve got two dwarves who can’t dream.”

“Maybe we can dream when we’re dying,” said Cadash hopefully.

“Don’t say that,” groaned Varric. “I don’t want to die.”

“I don’t think,” Dorian began, and touched the cliff rock expectantly. In the Fade, things were only impressions, memories of other places and things. It’s why Solas could walk among places that were a long time before he could have been born. The stone beneath his fingers was real.

“This is the Fade,” he said shakily.

“Yeah, we established that,” grunted Blackwall.

“No,” said Dorian, shaking his head again. “No, you see…this is…this is the actual place, the one people dream about. Like seeing a picture. But this is _it._ The Raw Fade.”

“Dorian, you’re not making sense,” Cadash looked concerned.

“Nothing here makes sense!”

There was that sound. The ripping sound of realities, and instinctively they glanced up.

“There,” said Cadash, after a moment of scanning. Her dark finger looked like an ominous portent against red flashing sky. Dorian could see the green, far off in the distance. “A rip. We can go back through.”

“Go back through?” Stroud was still stoic, but Dorian could tell he was as shaken as anyone. “Then where will we be?”

Cadash shook her head. “I don’t know. I know there are still a lot of rifts open in and around Orlais. We might dump out in one of them.”

“With three or three hundred darkspawn,” said Blackwall acidly.

“Do you have a better idea?” Dorian asked witheringly. "We're all ears."

Blackwall was silent.

They began walking. Dorian actually put his arm out in front of Cadash in some strange reflexive protection when they met the bright smear that was a spirit. Cadash snorted at the gesture. Despite everything, Cadash was at least as religious as Cassandra and Leliana, something that seemed at odds with her gruff exterior, and twisted sense of humor she shared with Sera. Dorian tried to explain this _couldn’t_ be Divine Justinia, but the sound of Cadash’s own scared voice in the replayed memories stopped his tongue.

He concentrated on fighting. He was grateful at least he had an unlimited supply of magic, as his lyrium cache was completely empty. The Fade was all magic, and so it was easy for Dorian to pull it out of thin air. It was only when they found the bones that Dorian began to dissemble again. How completely and unutterably sad to be nothing but bones in the Fade. So lost that no one could bring you home again, seeking … something.

Cadash placed the items, water, a ring, the most trivial items in life that were now paramount to peace in this place without death. Dorian wondered glumly if this would be him soon. If he would be bones with Cadash and the rest for thousands of years until the next unlucky group to be trapped in the Raw Fade. What would they need to bring him?

 _Absolution_.

He was sure of it, like the ringing of a bell, or that nightmarish voice that kept picking at all of their sanity piece by piece. But what could someone bring to give absolution? Dorian worried over the question. What could someone bring in real life, anyways?

Cadash had led them to the last small heap of bones. They were close now to the rift. The voice of the despair – nightmare – some other demon was getting louder, more mocking. Divine Justinia – demon – shade – was fading. Dorian saw a bit of iron fencing.

He hadn’t meant to wander into it, really, it had just seemed so _normal_. So ordinary. And so he stared his fear in the face and his heart sank.

_Temptation._

Yes, that was it.

He _was_ afraid of temptation. Afraid that he wouldn’t do the right thing when it came down to it, because it wouldn’t be easy. And so he forced himself to make the hard decisions, to leave Tevinter, to warn Cadash, to never fall in love. Never get tied down. It would be dangerously easy to do so. So very tempting, to be wanted.

But he was a magister’s son. A magister’s only son and heir, and therefore bound by duty over…something. Over what? Curiosity? Desire? Love?

“What did you find?” Varric’s voice was forcefully cheerful, as if acting like the Fade was nothing more than a bad dream might make it so. It was a pity he was a dwarf, or the delusion might actually work.

Varric stared at the graves too, and Dorian couldn’t help but flick his eyes over to Varric’s headstone. Varric didn’t speak. He didn’t have to.

_Become his parents._

Well, that was a fear Dorian could well understand. He just didn’t think he would ever have enough freedom to become his father.

“Come on,” he managed finally, clapping Varric on the shoulder. Varric hadn’t said anything about Dorian’s fears either. Both noticed Cadash’s name wasn’t among the headstones.

“Yeah,” Varric agreed, his voice uneasy. “This place gives me the creeps.”

* * *

“Hawke,” Varric said. Only that. Only her name.

Hawke glanced over her shoulder at Varric, half a smile tugging up her mouth. “What?” she teased. “Someone’s got to play the hero. And Corypheus-”

“Let me stay,” Stroud interrupted.

“Hawke,” said Varric again. This time, his voice broke.

“Tell Merrill-” said Hawke, in that same teasing tone, but then her voice failed her.

“Go,” Cadash ordered, and Dorian didn’t need to be told twice. He ran for the rift, feeling cowardly, like maybe he should have thrown his voice into the argument. He didn’t want to. He wanted to see grass. Taste water. He wanted to leave. He wanted to _live._

The enormous bloated body of a giant spider-creature was rank, and Dorian gagged. He knew, rationally, that the thing that had fed it was not Divine Justinia. Just like he knew Cole wasn’t a person. But Cole…he felt very real at times.

He could hear Blackwall’s heavy, uncertain breaths just behind him. For some reason, they were oddly comforting. Even if Dorian ended up neck deep in the Fallow Mire, by far his least favorite place Cadash had dragged him, he would have kissed the first corpse within reach.

To his surprise, as he jumped and saw green, heard the reality rending tear, he thought he saw…something. Then his feet hit stone and rolled out from under him. He heard Blackwall grunt, and then hardly a second passed before two more sounds, and then Cadash herself.

Dorian rolled up, his head reeling, clutching his staff. There was a brief, bloody fight, but Dorian could see Cullen’s face, sweat soaked and pinched white, on the other side of the fray as the Inquisition fought to get to their Inquisitor. He couldn’t believe they had been so fortunate to come out in more or less the same place. Had Cadash done that? There was no time to think, to ask, only to feel the blood between his teeth, the sandy grit something had blown into his mouth. Then it was over, and Dorian didn’t remember how he dropped to his knees, only that he was on them, staring dully at the boots of Varric. He jerked his gaze up. He expected Varric to be in tears.

Varric was beside Hawke, who looked pinched and angry and exhausted. Varric looked glad.

Dorian closed his eyes.

There was a loud, ensuing fight about letting the Grey Wardens join the Inquisition.

“And are you going to make me go with them?” That was Blackwall, yelling somewhere. Dorian felt his head touch the cobblestones. They were wonderfully solid. Rather like the Fade, to be honest. His eyes sprang open and he checked the sky was blue and far away.

“Do you think we’re in a position to turn down an army of experienced fighters?” That was Cadash, angry.

“Dorian.”

Dorian didn’t remember closing his eyes again, and when he opened them, he was disappointed it was Solas.

“Can you walk?”

“I am walking,” said Dorian vaguely.

“Where did you go? How did you survive?”

“The Fade,” Dorian managed.

“The Dreaming Way?”

Dorian shook his head marginally. He wasn’t sure why he was barely conscious and yet Cadash had enough energy to yell down Blackwall, Cassandra, and Cullen. He was glad, distantly, that Sera wasn’t here. She would be ballistic. There would likely be bees.

“Dorian,” said Solas again, shaking his shoulders. “What do you mean? What do you mean no, it wasn’t the Dreaming Way?”

“Raw Fade,” Dorian managed. His throat was so dry. The grit was coating his tongue. He was so tired. So thirsty. He was so stupidly glad to be somewhere there would be water. “Water,” he added.

Solas looked down at him, his face flooded with sudden pity. “Sleep,” he said, and it was a Word of Command.

Dorian wanted to block it. Wanted to argue. He wanted something to drink. He didn’t want to be carted out of here like a rag doll. He could hear a few raised and shrill voices. He wasn’t sure if they were talking about him. He thought he heard his name. But Solas had told him _sleep_.

It felt like a spear through one eye, and Dorian had only those fleeting thoughts until it came out the back of his head, and the world went dark and quiet.

* * *

Dorian awoke.

He could tell it had been a long time since he had been awake because he didn’t remember more than bits and pieces. There had been a tent. Someone had cut off his best robes as he had feebly flapped a hand at them. They had stayed in Adamant and converted it to a base camp, but Dorian had been kept half-entranced, half-asleep. He had never been awake properly enough to fight it, and he had been so tired.

There had been a cart. He thought he remembered the Iron Bull carrying him. His broad chest had been warm, but hitched with something like anger as Dorian’s head hit the bottom of a cart bed as he was laid down none too gently. Then he had slept again.

Sky. Passing sky, with clouds.

Water to his lips.

Bull’s horns like tree branches.

Dorian had tried to speak, but something was blocking his words. He tried to put his hand up to his mouth, but something was holding his hands. He wondered idly if it was Bull.

He had slipped back into unconsciousness.

He was in his room.

He was awake.

He sat up, and his head spun horribly. He felt extremely dizzy.

It was night, and it was dark, and when Dorian attempted to light a candle with a wave of one hand nothing happened. He reached for the magic, like drawing a fine thread out of a large pool, but the pool was empty. He could scrabble around with metaphorical fingertips but even the tiniest filament was absent. He would need to drink a lyrium potion just to restart the natural stocking of the pool.

Dorian tried not to worry himself overmuch about this. He had only been this badly depleted twice before, and both times had resulted in very bad hangovers and a week of recovery mostly laying down. He supposed that’s why he was in his bed in Skyhold.

He only wished he remembered how he had gotten there, or how long it had been. The fact his magic hadn’t replenished itself even a little in that time was deeply worrying.

Dorian moved slowly, as if he might have broken bones. There didn’t seem to be any, but his muscles were screaming at him, aching and bruised. It took a long time for the blood to stop prickling, making his feet feel swollen and hot and hard to walk on. Dorian hobbled to the vanity to pour a sloppy glass of water out of the pitcher. It was so dark he could barely see the opening of the cup.

It took two hands to get it to his lips.

He also hobbled to the chamberpot and then back to bed. The castle was so quiet he thought it might be two or three in the morning. By the time he had sat back down, he was drenched in sweat and starting to panic. Had he become seriously ill? Had the Fade done something to his magic?

The door to his room opened and shut quietly. Dorian froze, panicking. Who would come in here? And why?

“Dorian?” The voice was worried, and Dorian realized he was clutching the sheets pathetically. If this had been some sort of intruder then Dorian would not be able to fight them off. He relied too much on his magic.

“What?” he managed some of his usual waspish tone.

There was a fumbling in the darkness, cursing, and then a box of tinder clattering to the floor, the sudden rushing of heavy boots, and Dorian felt himself being enveloped in a surprising hug. But it was the arms, the heat, the smell he knew instantly.

“Bull?”

“You weren’t supposed to be awake until dawn,” said Iron Bull, his voice strange as he pulled away, carefully, like Dorian was ill.

“I’m sorry to disappoint,” said Dorian. “I was thirsty.”

He could see the shape of Bull’s head turn sharply as if checking for the pitcher.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized at once. “I should have left water on the nightstand.”

Dorian tried to chuckle, but his throat was still dry. Instantly Bull had fetched the water and poured him another glass. He even guided it for Dorian to his mouth, which Dorian appreciated.

“Why…” Dorian didn’t know how to politely ask it, so he came out and asked it anyway. “Why are you here?”

The Iron Bull stilled in the darkness and Dorian cursed silently that he couldn’t light even a lamp.

“Boss says,” Bull began hesitantly. “That you were in the Fade.”

“Yes,” Dorian agreed hoarsely. “So it would seem.”

“Vivienne suggested- “

Dorian interrupted with a snort. Vivienne hardly ‘suggested’ things.

“Well,” and Iron Bull fell silent.

“What?” Dorian asked. A thought. “The Inquisitor! Is Cadash all right? Is she hurt?”

“Boss is fine.”

“And Varric? And Blackwall?”

“Both still around.” But the way Iron Bull said it left Dorian thinking it might have been up for debate.

“Hawke…Hawke survived,” Dorian managed at last.

“She’s gone. She and Varric had a huge fight.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah.”

“But she’s alive?”

“Yeah. I guess so. I never really talked to her. She’s not exactly popular with the Qunari.”

“Isn’t she?” Dorian realized he was melting into Bull’s body heat and warmth, and Bull was pulling him into his side. Dorian rested his face under Bull’s arm against his warm chest. He knew he should feel vaguely embarrassed, having made such a production of this part before, but instead he closed his eyes. They hadn’t done this, when they fooled around. It was strictly mind-blowing sex or quickies between missions, hand jobs under the table, a blowout in the back alley while they both snickered. But now Dorian leaned into the warmth of Iron Bull and sighed contentedly.

He remembered his grave: _temptation_.

It didn’t worry him now, here, with Bull. Bull was of the Qun. Absolutely nothing could happen between them. They both knew it. They both enjoyed playing around anyway.

“Dorian,” and Bull’s voice was in his hair. “Can I try to explain this in the morning?”

Dorian lay down in answer, his fingers dragging on Bull’s arm when Bull stood up. “Are you leaving?”

“No,” said Bull, and this pleased Dorian for reasons he couldn’t quite find.

“Stay in the bed?”

“You don’t like it when I’m in the bed.”

“I’m too tired to flop around,” said Dorian, half-mumbling to himself. “I’m a rotten sleeper, you know.”

“Yeah,” said Bull, and there was something sad in his voice. Dorian could feel a gentle brushing of knuckles along the top of his arm, and he realized even as he drifted back to sleep he wasn’t wearing a shirt. “I know.”

* * *

When Dorian awoke in the morning it was because an entire troupe of people were present. He lifted a hand to block the light as the curtains were abruptly parted. His room wasn’t exactly large, so having Cullen in full plate and two similarly clad Templars was alarming, to say the least. More than that, Vivienne and Solas had also arrived, and the Iron Bull was standing defensively in a corner. 

“You unbound his arms?” Solas was saying, as Dorian, still weak as milk, struggled to push himself up.

“Bound- “ he tried to say. That was mortifying. Did the others know how he and Bull played? Then he remembered the cart. How he hadn’t been able to speak: a gag? And when he had tried to move his hands –

“What’s going on?” Dorian asked. He tried to do it crisply. Tried to seem annoyed and unconcerned, but the sight of so many people there was scaring him. Had he done something? Violated some stupid Southern rule? Was he going to be punished?

 _Imprisoned_ , his mind supplied, his eyes flitting to the coils of rope casually thrown onto the floor of his bedroom.

 _Killed_ , and his mind ratcheted the punishment up a notch as his gaze flicked to the sheathed swords.

And then, because he had been avoiding her carefully stoic mask, to Vivienne. _Made tranquil_ , he realized. He tried to struggle out of the bed, but he got tangled and only managed to flail around. Standing made him realize there were six other people using up the available floor space, and he sank down weakly.

He met Bull’s eyes and felt his heart turn over. Bull had been _guarding_ him.

“What- “he tried to say again, but fell silent when Vivienne and Cullen exchanged a look.

It was Solas who answered. He locked eyes with Dorian, as if no one else was in the room. Solas had an unnerving habit of making it seem true.

“The Inquisitor told us about the trip in the Fade.”

“Yes.” Dorian didn’t want to agree, but it was clear he was supposed to say something.

“We’re here make sure there weren’t any…stowaways.”

Dorian stared at him blankly.

“A Harrowing,” Vivienne offered after an impatient second. Dorian knew her well enough to hear her frustration masking other things.

“What?” It was such a stupid response, really. His mind railed at the unoriginality as he caught Bull’s eye over the shoulder pauldrons of the nameless Templars.

“I volunteered to stand vigil.” That was Cullen.

Dorian knew what this would cost him if he actually had been possessed, which he wasn’t.

He _wasn’t_.

He also knew it was equally pointless to try to argue this with this group.

Dorian had been looking forward to playing chess with Cullen. This wasn’t exactly what he had expected from his homecoming: Cullen vowing to kill him on sight. He also knew this was Cullen’s way of proving his friendship. To be the first line of defense. To make sure Dorian didn’t _suffer._

For the Harrowing, Templars would stand around the circle the mages would draw. Technically Vivienne didn’t need anyone else to help her, but Dorian could sense Solas had bullied his way into it. He supposed he should be grateful to his friend for insisting on doing it herself, instead of letting Solas take the lead. Dorian half smiled at her, and Vivienne’s tightly held eyes softened at the corners in return. So she recognized his thoughts. That was good.

“I don’t understand,” Dorian forced his voice to be polite. It was very hard, mostly because he was wearing only his sleeping trousers, and because he realized now he had been forced to be comatose for the last week, his magic drained out of him every time it tried to well back up. He had been kept like a common criminal.

“What questions can we answer?” Vivienne again. Calm. Her voice was ice, which meant she was very angry.

“Why…” Dorian struggled with the end of this sentence. Instead: “What about the others? Where are Cadash and Blackwall and- “

“The Inquisitor and Varric are dwarves,” offered Cullen, sounding apologetic. “It’s not possible for them to be possessed.”

“Varric’s brother- “ began Dorian. He knew only some of the story, but Cullen shook his head.

“That was a Deep Roads artifact. It poisoned him. Varric too, you can ask him.”

“The children of stone don’t have the space inside them for something else,” said Solas calmly.

Dorian gritted his teeth. Sometimes, Solas’ non-answers made him want to use a fire mine under his feet. Solas would probably only frown in puzzlement and ask what had prompted it.

“And Blackwall?” he managed finally, with the dregs of his civility.

Solas raised an eyebrow. “A Grey Warden?”

Dorian made a rude noise that drew a silent laugh from Bull in the corner.

“Out,” said Vivienne, pointing.

Bull crossed his arms, his glare darkening. “No.”

“ _Out_ ,” Vivienne said again.

Usually, Bull would have given way. Would have respected her authority with a ‘yes ma’am.’ Vivienne would have been pleased. Their private joke, in a way.

Now Bull looked at her again, and didn’t deign to respond.

“Get him out,” Solas said absently, beginning to circle the bed with chalk, marking a barrier spell with runes.

Cullen looked at Bull. Bull looked at Cullen. Bull was a head again taller than any of the Templars, and even in full plate it was unlikely they could bodily shift his weight.

“Unless you’re going to attack him,” said Dorian dryly. “I would like him to stay.”

Vivienne threw him a frustrated glance he understood all too well. Relationships were messy when it came to Harrowings. The whole process was…unpleasant.

“When did you sit for your last Harrowing?” Solas asked, still chalking Dorian’s floorboards.

“I don’t understand the question.” Dorian was being difficult on purpose, and relished the childishness of it.

“Dorian,” and Vivienne breathed a long breath through her nose and tried again. “My dear. What were you? Seventeen? Eighteen?” Harrowings were the rite of initiation between from apprentice to the title and trappings of a full mage. There was no set age or time for a Harrowing, so a student had to be ready at all times to take it. The masters decided when an apprentice was ready.

“No,” said Dorian again.

There was silence as Solas looked up from chalking, Vivienne uncrossed her arms, her face growing tight with horror, the two Templars glanced at one another, and Cullen pulled his lips in.

“What?” Bull asked into the silence.

“I’ve never undergone a Harrowing,” said Dorian defensively. “We use something else, rather similar.”

“Similar?” Vivienne’s voice was sharp. “Do you test your apprentices for signs of possession from dreaming?”

“No,” said Dorian flatly. “Only test their strength of will for the future.”

“Then how do you know they aren’t already possessed?”

“Because we trust in what we taught them. You see, we don’t _fear_ magic.”

“You should,” muttered Cullen.

Dorian rolled his eyes. “Yes, yes, the big evil empire with slavery and blood magic. I’ve heard it all before.”

“So you don’t even know if you have something inside of you. By rights we should petition for you to be made Tranquil,” said Vivienne faintly.

Solas made a protesting noise even as Dorian talked over him: “I will kill myself if you try it.”

Immediately there was uproar. The Templars drew their swords, and Cullen held out his hands to them, telling them to sheathe their weapons. Bull stood upright, looming, his face black. Vivienne blew out a noisy, angry breath as she began: “Obviously I – “

Only Solas continued the preparations. He stood up, dusting his hands on his knees before retrieving the eight candles from a bag and began melting them upright into the floor and on Dorian’s bedposts.

“This changes nothing,” said Solas.

“What?” Vivienne rounded on him.

“Either he brought a spirit with him from the Fade or there’s already one using him as a host.”

“It’s not a _spirit_ ,” Vivienne seethed. “It’s a demon. Good spirits don’t possess people.”

“I disagree,” said Solas simply. “Spirits try to please by becoming what people want them to be. It’s easy for a spirit of knowledge to be corrupted into a pride demon.”

“In the initiate’s Harrowing,” Cullen seemed desperate to try to stick to the script he knew, talking loudly to Dorian though they were only a few steps apart in the small room. “A master will summon a demon – “

“Spirit- “ interrupted Solas.

“To test the apprentice,” Cullen managed, wincing as he tried to find the thread. “And then- “

“Please, I’m not that stupid,” Dorian said. “Like I would fall for the wiles of a Desire Demon.”

There was silence, and Dorian felt his face heat. Varric must have told them, then. He looked away from Iron Bull, suddenly ashamed.

“That’s not exactly what’s going to happen here,” said Vivienne calmly. She had pieced herself back together and was regarding Dorian with serious dark eyes that were piercing in their concern. He shouldn’t have said the bit about killing himself, but the Rite of Tranquility was so barbaric to him the idea of a Dorian-like Helisma walking around reading books and breaking his staff was…impossible.

“It’s not?” Cullen seemed panicked at this news. He glanced at Dorian, as if of anyone _Dorian_ would know the answer.

“We’re operating under the assumption that Dorian has already been possessed,” said Vivienne.

Both Iron Bull and Dorian made identical sounds in their throat, but Vivienne continued on as if they hadn’t spoken.

“Solas and I will summon each of the aspect demons for Dorian to interact with. It is likely that his possessor will either attempt to slay them on sight, or they will vie for his life.”

“And what if, now hear me out,” said Dorian acerbically, “I’m _not_ possessed?”

“Well of course,” and here Vivienne smiled a knife thin smile, “then it will be up to you to survive and resist…temptation on your own.”

Dorian hated her then, as he had never expected to hate her, and she glanced away. He gritted his teeth even as his stomach swooped. He wasn’t stupid. He knew what she was doing. Triggering his temper. Making him angry, making him hate her to make this easier for her to do. _Fuck_ that. He wasn’t going to make it _easy._

“Thank you,” he said, breathing out evenly. “And if I am possessed, then?”

Cullen crossed to the window. He didn’t have to speak.

“Ah,” said Dorian lightly. “Then I’m an abomination, not fit to live.”

“Now hang on,” interrupted the Iron Bull.

“Silence,” said Vivienne, and she said it as a Word of Command. Dorian knew it would only last until Vivienne began another concentration spell, but watched as Bull attempted to spit a string of words he knew were mostly curses. For a moment, Bull looked like he might stalk out, but he met Dorian’s eyes with his and there was a frisson of understanding between them. Instead, Bull sat in the chair draped in Dorian's mostly-clean clothes. It creaked under his weight, but he only tilted out his boots and crossed his arms.

Dorian could see his fingers playing with the knives he wore buckled under his shoulder holster, and gave him a weak, not-at-all reassuring smile.

“Well, this should be fun,” said Dorian brightly. “There are only, what, six aspect demons?”

“Seven,” said Solas, settling himself cross-legged on the floor outside the chalked markings. “Pride, desire, sloth, envy, rage, fear, and despair.”

“Wonderful,” grumbled Dorian.

“Cullen,” Vivienne instructed, and Cullen turned from the window, his face drawn and remote, like he had been busy putting pieces of himself in a box for what he had to do. As Vivienne also settled with her legs under her next to Solas, Cullen threw a bottle onto the bed where Dorian still sat rather foolishly tangled in his covers.

He wished he were wearing more clothes.

The bottle was bright, faintly glowing even around the wax as Dorian broke it. He knew it without needing to look at the imprinted sigil on the seal: lyrium.

“Go into the Fade, and wait.” That was Vivienne, holding her hands under Solas’ fingers. He had not yet placed them in her palms. Dorian almost wished they would. It would be riotously funny to watch the flinching moments of them linking hands, given that they both despised the other.

 _Working together, just for me_ , he thought sourly.

Instead, Dorian drained the potion. It tasted as metallic, rather like thinned out blood. He had learned not to gag on it but open his throat to let it pour down. A useful skill in other contexts as well. Unwillingly, his eyes flicked to the Iron Bull, still sitting with his legs stretched out in faux nonchalance. Bull gave him a tiny nod with only his eye.

Dorian closed his eyes and reached for the well of magic, bright, gold, nourishing. He had been so deprived of magic most of it was draining away at an alarming rate, seeking out the weak points of his body: the cracks and aches, the low-grade headache, the scabbed over cuts from the flagstones. Dorian grabbed metaphorical tendrils in both hands and held on. He pulled himself towards it, instead of the magic into himself, and felt his consciousness catapult into the Dreaming Way.

He opened his eyes in the Fade abruptly. It was a generic place. An echo of somewhere. A field of grass. A cloudy sky above, but no fade rifts, thankfully, no terrible spiders or spirits pretending to be dead people.

 _Dorian?_ Vivienne was not here, but he could hear her. She was likely speaking aloud, though his body’s responses were much slower than the speed at which reality formed in the Fade.

“I’m here,” he said, in clipped annoyance. “Start your test.”

“It is an old custom, the Harrowing,” said Solas, and Dorian glanced at him. He had popped in out of nowhere, standing as comfortably next to Dorian as if they had been walking together. The control that must have taken was unnerving. Most mages couldn’t find each other in the Fade unless they linked hands. But even though Solas was here with him, there was no sign of Vivienne.

Dorian knew Solas had purposefully left her behind and almost smiled. Vivienne was going to be _furious_.

“Ah yes, of course, the elves invented it,” said Dorian rather sarcastically.

“We did, yes.” Solas showed no trace of sarcasm. He still had his hands laced behind his back.

“Did you know that the Ancient Elves used Blood Magic as much as Tevinter did?” Dorian was being difficult on purpose, but wished he hadn’t said it when Solas turned clear and calm grey blue eyes to him.

“Yes.” One word. Chillingly. It wasn’t a threat, but it felt like one.

Dorian turned away.

 _Dorian?_ Vivienne was calling again.

“I’m ready as I’ll ever be.” Dorian was talking to Solas, who inclined his head the way he might of to Cassandra. Dorian wasn’t sure if this was a gesture of respect, or a faint mockery. He wasn’t even sure what it meant when Solas did it with Cassandra.

Solas only took a striding step as if seeing someone he knew and disappeared in a blur of scenery. Dorian looked around, his mouth twisting with sarcastic amusement. Of course Vivienne would pick this one first. The most likely to make him fall.

It was a bedroom he knew well, deep red wallpaper and sconces of fragrant oil burning in lamps. The plush rugs over the floor by the fireplace were newly cleaned. The bed rumpled, silk sheets ruined.

“Dorian?” The man in the bed was rubbing his eyes sleepily, as if he had just awoken because of Dorian’s absence.

Dorian looked down. He was predictably, not wearing the trousers anymore.

“Kilant,” said Dorian, and he heard his voice, tinged with regret. “I should have guessed.”

“Dorian, what are you talking about? Come back to bed.”

Dorian could feel the glamor sucking him in. It felt _very_ real. He felt younger. Less sure of himself. He also could feel Kilant’s interested gaze traveling below his belly button.

“I need to go,” he apologized.

“Don’t.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t stay here.”

“Your father can wait.”

“My father has waited. All night, in fact.” Dimly, Dorian knew this wasn’t real. This wasn’t right.

“You should leave him.”

“Oh yes, and what, work here?”

Kilant half smiled. “You would make a killing.”

“No doubt.”

“You could stay with me. In this room.”

“And what? Get so tired from sleeping with strangers all day I couldn’t even bring up an interest to sleep with you?”

“I do it.”

“Because I pay you.”

“Dorian, please- “

Dorian smiled at him, his heart cracking terribly. “Maker, I was so young.”

Kilant looked confused.

“To think this would have worked on me. This very terrible offer, thinking this was love. For the chance of…what? Blind affection?”

“Dorian, I love you- “

“You don’t love me,” Dorian interrupted. “And even if you did, even then, I would have said no. I’m a practical man, you see. I’m spoiled. I like comfort.”

“You can be comfortable here.”

“No. I like my name. Dorian Pavus. House of. Sole heir.”

“You can be- “

“I’m selfish, you see,” and Dorian didn’t know why he was bothering to apologize to a demon. A desire demon wearing his lover’s face. He _had_ loved Kilant.

His father had found out.

“Dorian, it’s- “

“The ruse is up, of course. You don’t have to continue playing the part.”

A horrible smile carved up Kilant’s face, and he stood, beautiful and young, his body perfect and smooth. “Oh but it’s very fun to watch your pain.”

Dorian half shrugged. “Be that as it may, I decline your offer.”

“I haven’t made it yet.”

“Let’s see, I let you jump in my body, you give me my heart’s desire, right?”

“Right.”

“But of course it’s all a sham. You lock me in a prison of my own mind. Keep me doped enough to keep from realizing what’s happening. Except I’ll figure it out slowly. Things will flicker. The daydreams won’t seem real enough. Kilant won’t fight with me.”

“Do you like that? Do you want him to?” The thing wasn’t even using Kilant’s voice anymore.

“You can’t mimic humankind very well,” Dorian said, almost apologetically. “The lie is obvious.”

“It only has to last for a while.”

“Until you use up my body.”

“You wouldn’t remember. If I slipped in now. I could erase the knowledge. You could be twenty again.”

Dorian laughed. “For a while, I might have jumped at that chance. But I was so young. And very stupid. I don’t need to be twenty again.”

“Do you _want_ it though?” pressed the desire demon. It had given up Kilant’s form and was hovering close to his face, hot breath fanning over his cheeks. Dorian wanted, very badly, to kiss it. He also wanted to stay alive, so he resisted.

Dorian half smiled. It was the Iron Bull who had taught him the difference between _want_ and _need_. He hadn’t expected it to come in so handy in the middle of a Harrowing.

“No,” he said firmly. “Not now, and not ever.”

With a frustrated wail of anguish, the entire room disappeared, the demon with it. Dorian had expected an interlude with Solas or Vivienne, but though he stood in the complete darkness for half a minute, no one spoke.

Shrugging, he conjured light. Magic didn’t need to be real here, only a thought. His real magic in his real body was busy keeping his consciousness in the Fade. 

With the light in his hand, he could see the familiar pattern of tile beneath his feet. Without warning a dread so strong as to be physical swamped him. Dorian felt his heart begin beating faster. He knew where he was.

He tried to force his legs to move, but they wouldn’t. He stared at the stonework again. It was the pattern that led to his mother’s bedroom. He didn’t want to go in there. He turned to leave.

“Please,” a pitiful, wailing cry in a voice he had forgotten. The sound of it ripped through him. How had he forgotten the sound of her voice? “Help me. _Help_ me. Please- “

Even knowing it wasn’t real, even knowing it was designed to trap him, Dorian could not resist the sound of his mother’s weeping. He turned back around and crept into the darkness again, the great door of her bedroom looming up.

“Please, it hurts. _Please_ help. Help! Help me- “

Dorian put his hand on the cold brass handle and pushed down. The lock clicked and he swung open the heavy, silent door.

Inside, the room was completely dark save for the moonlight striping across the four-poster bed in which a small, shrunken figure lay in an awkward position.

“Dorian!” His mother was so glad to see him, Dorian almost wept.

“Did- " his voice was young. “Did you need something?”

“Can you turn me over? Please, Dorian, it hurts so much.”

Dorian reflexively checked movement from the corner of his eye, but it was the only elaborate gilt framed mirror on the wall. The face that stared back at him was barely a teenager. He was skinny and short, his skin burnt from the sun. He was wearing his hair in the awful queue he had insisted was fashionable.

“Of course,” he murmured. She used to scream him awake. All the way across the house he heard her screaming, until he slept strung taut like a bow, listening for the smallest sound. Now he was a rotten sleeper, full of nightmares and sleeping so lightly a footstep startled him awake, fearful of her needing him.

“Dorian, please. I can’t- “

“I know.” His heart had a sort of lever inserted into the crack Kilant had made and was slowly working it apart, a stubborn nut to split.

Carefully, Dorian moved his mother’s paralyzed limbs into something resembling comfort.

“Oh my side, please Dorian.”

He pulled on her hip. Tried not to notice her withered body beneath the gaping neck of her nightgown. Felt perverted. Felt alone.

“Dorian, I can’t live like this.”

“Shh, it’s going to be all right.”

It wasn’t. They both knew it.

“I can’t do it myself,” whispered his mother.

Dorian pretended not to hear.

“Dorian- “

“No,” he shook his head hard. “I can’t. I _can’t_.”

“Please. I’m in such pain. Pick up that pillow. I would do it if- “

“ _NO_.”

“Your father won’t know. He will think I went peacefully- “

“NO!”

_Dorian!_

From far, far away, he heard his name chimed like a bell. It was Bull’s voice. Dorian remembered all at once. He wasn’t fifteen. He hadn’t killed his mother. She had died, truly, in her sleep. He felt anger raging up inside of him at the insidious trick. What was this then? _Fear_?

“Get out of her.”

“Dorian, darling- “

“GET OUT OF HER!”

“Dorian I- “

Dorian reached for the shrunken shape of his mother, his hands on fire, ready to strangle her out, but she turned to mist between his fingers and he felt tears drip down his face.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. He hoped his mother could hear him. Or maybe he didn’t. “I’m so sorry.” He hadn’t been strong enough to help her.

“Let me in,” it was a crooning, soft voice. “You’ll never have to think of it again. I’ll wipe it from your memory.”

“Go away,” he was listless in his denial.

“The worst things will have never happened.”

“They will,” Dorian replied, his tone monotonous. “Even you can’t undo them.”

“Ah but I am – “

“An average demon.”

“No! My name is- “

“I don’t care.”

“You would make such a pleasant host. Just let me – “

“Fuck off.”

“Excuse me?”

“Which one are you then?”

“I am the spirit- “

“Are you Fear or Despair?”

The demon seemed stumped.

“That one, the other one. It was Fear, right?”

The demon said nothing.

“So you must be Despair. Just…fuck off.”

“I- “

“I said no! Explicit no! No entry! Fuck right off! Also, yes, fear demon, YOU fuck off! NOT OPEN FOR BUSINESS.”

It wasn’t night. He wasn’t in his mother’s bedroom, but he was so very tired from the ordeal.

He was in Haven. In the little wooden outbuilding he shared with Adan. He was kneeling on his bed staring out the tiny cut window without glass. He could see Cadash and Sera, if he tilted his head right, just getting to know each other, each tilting her hips or head in the bar across the way. He was entertaining himself guessing what they were saying.

He also felt cripplingly lonely.

What had he done? Incredibly stupid, leaving Tevinter, the estate, everything. For what? For sharing a cot in a wooden shack? For being sneered at, talked about behind his back? Mercilessly grilled by Leliana or regarded with friendly, almost ridiculous, suspicion by the mercenary company in tents by the stables?

He watched the Inquisitor, loneliness and jealousy clawing his insides. He wished he had a pretty boy to tilt _his_ head at. Someone to chat up in a bar. Or even the confidence to show his preference as openly as a dwarf smuggler now leading some holy crusade. The Chantry weren’t exactly celibate, but it was still a strange thing to watch someone like her-

“Dorian?”

Dorian turned.

“I’m Dorian Pavus,” he said automatically, because he was still used to introducing himself. He didn’t know the elf coming in. His head was completely shaved, which Dorian had never seen, not even in the stricter slavers. He guessed that’s what this man was: an escaped slave. Usually they were snatched up by the Qun. The big Qunari had talked loudly of the Qun’s benefits when Cadash asked and Dorian happened to be in earshot. The elf couldn’t be Dalish. He didn’t have the Vallasin on his face.

“I’m Solas.”

Dorian almost smiled. _The lonely one_. It was certainly a fitting name for how Dorian felt right now.

“Dorian.”

“You’re from Tevinter.” It was not a question.

“Obviously.”

“A noble family, I believe.”

“Yes.”

“One with slaves?”

Dorian stared at him. It was unthinkably rude to ask it, as one of the first things he had ever said, and yet he had, with no more temper than if he had asked if it was raining. Dorian could hear the other elf – Sera – laughing with snorts even over this distance and felt another spike of jealousy that he got this elf and Cadash got the funny one.

“Yes,” he said at last.

“At least you’re honest.” Solas said this with something like bitterness, but his face didn’t change expression. It was a bit eerie.

“Yes,” Dorian said again, because he couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“What are you doing here?”

Dorian stared again. He was so, very tired. He wished Solas would kindly see himself out so that he could lay down and listen to the distant flirting, pretending to have friends here. Maybe when Adan came back Dorian might bully him into chess. Adan didn’t know how to play, but Dorian was trying (unsuccessfully) to teach him. Surely _someone_ in this maker-forsaken barn knew how to play.

“What are you doing here?” Solas repeated again.

This time the Inquisitor laughed, high and fluting for her usually deep voice. Dorian felt a stab of envy so severe he shook his head like a dog, waking himself up.

“This is rather sad, isn’t it?” he asked fake-Solas.

“What is?” Solas tipped his head with a simulacrum of concern.

“That Envy chose loneliness to feed off.”

Solas smiled then, and Dorian had to look away. Solas never smiled. And the sharp toothed smile he had on now was certainly not his own.

“You won’t be lonely,” Envy tried to promise him.

“Leave,” Dorian said in a flat, bored voice.

“Everyone will envy _you_.”

“No thanks.”

“Everyone will like you.”

Dorian pretended to shudder. “That would take all the fun out of life.”

This seemed to stump the demon, who paused.

“That’s an explicit no to possession, mind you,” Dorian said firmly.

Envy snarled at him, but Dorian pushed him out the open shack door with a gust of wind he conjured from the Dreaming Way and slammed the door behind him.

“Stupid,” he berated himself. To fall for such a simple moment he hadn’t thought significant. Meeting Solas, of all people.

He sat back on the cot and waited for the scene to change. Now that he knew this wasn’t Haven, he could see the tiny inconsistencies. The straw strewn over the grass was in the same pattern repeated, like a stamp. The training yard sounds two tiers down repeated the same pattern of clashing swords and shields in a loop, instead of Cullen or Cassandra varying the technique. The ring of the blacksmith’s hammer never stopped, a persistent clinking sound at odds with human stamina. Cadash was still mildly flirting with Sera, their laughter always the same number of seconds, almost on cue.

Dorian swung his legs up on the cot and lay his head down. Despite the falseness of the place, it was nice to be back in Haven. It was funny. He hadn’t really remembered the first weeks at Haven, achingly lonely and a finger-pointed outcast. Instead, he only remembered the good moments: learning Cullen played chess, when Vivienne consented to move in and they had immediately taken to bemoaning the state of the “hall” and how she had to live in a tiny room shared with Josephine and Leliana.

Dorian remembered he had been wary of the Chargers when Cadash had introduced them, sending them out on small council campaigns. And how strange it had been when she had invited their leader to go hiking the Hinterlands with the rest of them, as if he were…important. That one stupid day in the Fallow Mire, slogging through mud so thick that Sera’s hair had glued itself to her scalp and when it dried on the way back to Haven Bull had to tap her skull to break it apart like a pot while Cadash and Dorian roared with laughter.

Haven hadn’t been so bad, really. He had certainly been upset when it had been destroyed.

Dorian realized he had closed his eyes to better listen to the rhythms of a life left behind, completely obliterated. Skyhold was certainly more comfortable, but everything was spaced out. There were no more large campfire cookouts, or finding one of the women just by knocking on their one tiny bedroom while they all screeched they were changing. Or Leliana, who opened it without shame as Josephine dove for the blankets, topless.

“It’s only Dorian,” Leliana had rolled her eyes.

Dorian realized he was dozing and struggled to open his eyes. It was dangerous to dream while in the Dreaming Way. It was getting too deep into magic.

What was he doing here, anyway? Haven was gone. Why was he –

“Ah,” Dorian said, feeling stupid. He sat up on his cot. “Well done.”

Adan was at the door, looking confused. He had been coming in to change.

“Er- “

“Torpor, isn’t it? Or another sloth demon? You very nearly got me. Very good try.”

“Th-thanks?” Adan was still stammering.

“Just…drop the act. Make your pitch.”

Haven was gone. Dorian was sitting on a log in front of a bonfire. Cullen sat next to him, his stupidly handsome face turned to Dorian with a smile.

“Envy wasn’t stupid, you know. You really can live here.”

“Everyone keeps offering me dreams to live in,” Dorian said dryly. “As if they were better than the real world.”

“Well,” shrugged not-Cullen. “Aren’t they? No unpleasant things, awkward interludes. No needing to go to the bathroom- “

“Sometimes a good piss is worth it.”

“Fine, only getting stinking drunk. You’ll have friends. You’ll _belong_.”

Dorian winced at the emphasis. Sloth was offering him something he did desperately want: being comfortable somewhere. Being accepted.

“Fuck off,” he said instead.

Cullen half smiled. “Yeah?”

“It’s a no.”

“Sorry to hear it.”

Dorian missed the heat of the bonfire as soon as it winked out. He hadn’t realized he had been leaning into the black fur stole Cullen wore until he almost toppled over in its absence.

Dorian was in a grey space. It was like being in a patch of particularly dense fog, but he didn’t mind. He knew rationally there were only two left, but he wasn’t sure how many more punches there would be. The temptation of being in a committed relationship, the fear of failure to protect those he loved as he couldn’t before, the lure of being accepted. Dorian felt like these temptations were…normal. Right?

Or maybe temptation was something still to come.

“Ah, Dorian.” The overly accentuated tone was unmistakable.

Dorian was walking through the long corridors of their estate. The tile was red but the walls a white stucco.

“I need you to attend me with the Seneschal. It’s time you learned how business worked.”

Dorian looked up at the looming figure of his father, his heart skipping a beat. This was the first day his father was considering him as a man. His mother had woken him and told him to dress in his finest tunic. He had been very careful not to spill any juice at breakfast so as not to look like a child when he reported to his father.

“Yes, Father,” he said respectfully.

“The Pavus estate needs careful handling. I have a seat on the Magisterium, and one day you will as well. But until that happens, I need a man I can trust to look after your mother and this family.”

Dorian puffed out his chest in pride. “Yes, Father,” he said again.

Dorian spooled out of his body as if on a wire, and he recognized the boy as himself, when he was no more than ten, dark hair and too many rings, trying to appear older.

From the third person view he watched idly as his father took himself into the study and closed the door behind them.

“You have a chance to do it over,” said his father, and Dorian turned.

They were both on the wall surrounding the inner keep of the Pavus home. He could see for miles over the North country and his heart swelled with its familiar beauty.

“Ah,” said Dorian, rather sadly. “You must be Pride.”

“It wouldn’t be a dream. You would be a co-host in the body. I could manage your father. Put you back in his good graces until he was as proud of you now as he was today.”

“Ah, tempting,” Dorian mocked lightly. “But then, what fun would I have in disappointing him?”

“You don’t really want to disappoint him,” said the shade of his father, scanning the horizon. “You desperately want him to be proud of you. You crave his approval more than anyone’s.”

“I should have killed her when I had the chance,” Dorian muttered, also locking gaze with the horizon line.

“Pardon?” Even Pride seemed surprised.

“That’s just the problem, isn’t it? I still want him to be proud, which means I still think there’s a chance. If I had only done something to break his faith in me early enough, I could have gotten away from his toxic poison. His meddling and making me feel small. Making me feel – “

“Like what, Dorian?”

His mother was on the wall, exactly as beautiful and as healthy as she had been when he was ten.

Dorian felt the anger surging up in him. How _dare_ they –

“Ah,” he said, feigning polite surprise. “Rage.”

“This guise seemed to work so well when you were with Fear,” puzzled Rage.

“Go away,” said Dorian. “And take her face off.”

“You know your best fire magic feeds on anger.”

“Go. Away.”

“And you’re a talented necromancer.”

Dorian felt his stomach swoop. He knew what was coming, and yet couldn’t stop it.

“Imagine what you could do if I was with you. Imagine who you could become. You could _save_ me, Dorian.”

His mother grew ever lovelier to him, and taller, terrifyingly so, until Dorian reoriented himself and realized he was a child again. Small.

He hated himself for wanting to throw himself at her waist and wrap his arms around her.

“If you can’t make him proud,” said his father. “At least make him love you again.”

Dorian clenched his jaw. He knew his body was crying because the heat on his face dripping down his chin was burning his white-hot rage. His mother was smiling at him.

“Take her face off, _right now_.”

“Make me.”

Dorian mastered himself, even though he had grown to his normal size and summoned a staff, a completely unnecessary instrument in the dreaming way.

“No.”

“Dorian- “

“I said _no._ ”

“At least- “

“Both of you – _no!”_

There was a howl, sets of claws tried to rend his spirit into shreds and Dorian screamed at the agony of it as he was dismembered, his face a fluttering banner of shreds as the world around him pitched.

It settled back to white, and Dorian felt his throat tearing with the scream before it ended. He panted, lying flat on his back, probing at his own face. Vivienne was kneeling next to him in the Fade, her hand descending, concern etched into her usually stoic features, trying to find where he was hurt.

He grabbed her wrist as he struggled to it up, still breathing hard. “Do not touch me.”

“My dear, it’s me.”

“Do _not_.”

She pulled her hand away, swallowing.

Dorian wasn’t sure if she was real or another test. “Did I pass?” he asked at last.

Slowly, Vivienne nodded.

“Good,” spat Dorian, and he threw himself back towards his physical shape.

He slammed into himself and threw up immediately down his front.

“What the hell is wrong with him?” One of the Templars asked, drawing her sword.

“Give him space.” That was Solas, standing up from his cross-legged position on the floor and rubbing out a chalk marking with a foot while Dorian collapsed boneless and messy onto his own pillows. Something was on his face.

Tentatively he reached up and touched his face, expecting vomit. It came away red.

“Blood,” he said stupidly.

“They ripped your spirit apart,” said Solas, blazing angrily. “No spirit would have _dared_ \- “

He stopped talking to lay his hands on either side of Dorian’s face. Immediately, Dorian could feel the heavy cold feeling in his stomach receding. He wondered if he had been ripped apart on the inside too.

He sagged against Vivienne’s secondary laying of hands. Her dark face was grey with fatigue, overuse of magic, and stark fear. She looked at Dorian as if he were a ghost.

He wondered if he was.

“What the fuck just happened?” that was the Iron Bull, and he was shaking one of Cullen’s pauldrons off, snapping the buckles easily in his hand with an apologetic grimace.

“I don’t know,” said Cullen. “Vivienne?”

“Don’t dispel any magic,” Vivienne said frostily. “Unless you want Dorian to die.”

“No one wants Dorian to die,” Dorian said vaguely.

“Sleep,” said Solas, and this time Dorian did fight the command, trying to claw his way up the spear Solas was driving inexorably through his brain.

Dorian was weak. His magic was almost gone, and Solas was unusually good at the spell.

Dorian lost the fight with consciousness and felt his eyes roll up in his head as Vivienne murmured.

“We have to get him to the healers.”

* * *

When Dorian awoke, even before he opened his eyes he checked his magic. The well was bright gold, brimming full, and he sighed out in relief. He heard a chair shift next to him, and he cracked an eye against the bright white clouds. He was…outside?

“You’re awake.” It was Cullen, still in his armor.

“Where- “ Dorian's throat was so hoarse. He was used to Bull’s noticing, so it was a beat before he croaked. “Water?”

Cullen jumped guiltily, and leaned down to fetch a ladle from a bucket.

Dorian drank it, then tried: “Where am I?”

“The healers’ tents, down in the courtyard.”

“How long- “

“Not long. Maybe an hour. Solas had mostly patched you up himself, but he was almost grey by the end. They tried to make him stay and rest, but he went to his couch and collapsed.”

“And Vivienne?”

“I’m here, my dear,” Vivienne sounded unusually hesitant.

Dorian turned his head. “Do I look as bad as I feel?”

She smiled wanly. “No, of course not.”

“Rotten liar.”

“A polite fiction.”

“And?”

“And.” She stared at him with eyes that seemed suddenly bottomless. They were very bright. “I’m sorry,” she said after a moment.

Cullen cleared his throat, clearly unhappy to be intruding.

“Well you’ve all had your fun,” Dorian said rather waspishly. “I’ve been cleared for duty, and nearly died.”

“Very, very nearly,” Vivienne confirmed.

“Can everyone just…fuck off now?”

Cullen almost smiled. “You sound like we’re demons.”

“I feel like – hang on,” said Dorian, a horrible suspicion occurring. “What do you mean?”

Cullen looked awkward. “Usually Harrowings are silent but- “

“You _heard_?” Dorian was horrified.

“Only what you said. Not anything else.”

Dorian tried to race back around what he said, but it was all such a painful muddle he winced. “Fantastic,” he managed weakly. “I’m really pleased. Now I’m serious. Fuck off.”

Cullen pressed his lips together in something like apology and pushed his gauntleted hands to his knees and stood up in a heavy ponderous movement that betrayed how heavy the armor was. Dorian closed his eyes.

“Dorian- “

“No.” He refused to look at her. “I can’t believe you didn’t trust me enough to know I would _never –_ “

“Dorian.”

“No. You were the one who suggested it, I know.”

“In the circles – “

“I don’t want to hear about your damned circles,” Dorian said irritably. If he could have stalked away, he would have. He settled instead for turning painfully on a hip and squeezing his eyes shut. “You don’t know what you did to me." His voice was low, his eyes still closed.

“I’m starting to.”

He heard her leave.

Dorian waited a few minutes to make sure everyone was gone. A healer came by to offer him more water, which he drank meekly and more helplessly than he was feeling. He was taking stock of his internal injuries: painful, stiff, but not nearly as bad as some of the injuries he had received on the battlefields with Cadash. An Arcane Horror had once reached inside his body before Cassandra had decapitated it. They hadn’t any other healer in the party, and Dorian had to be carried litter style – mostly by Cassandra herself - back to camp while Dorian tried not to bleed to death by using tiny barrier spells on the puncture marks.

He carefully rolled to his feet and swayed. It was still a cloudy day, and the evening was settling in so there was a twilight gloom that made it easy for him to use his magic to Fade-step away from the surgeons’ camp halfway up the stairs. He paused, gasping and doubled over out of sight, but risked another Fade-step to the corridor to avoid having to climb.

It took about two minutes of leaning woozily against a wall before he was stable enough to totter to his room. It felt a long walk, but he was glad to see someone had laid a fire and set up a bath in preparation.

He sagged in the doorframe, closing his eyes and catching his breath before he entered completely.

“You look terrible.”

Dorian didn’t have any extra energy to jump in surprise, so he merely cracked an eye.

“Bull.” He said it with the gritty feeling still coating his tongue. “I’m sorry.” As an added benefit.

“Sorry?”

Where to start? Sorry that the Iron Bull had to sit through that…ordeal. He knew Bull had saved his life at least once by calling out to him, but Dorian’s cheeks burned at the thoughts of what Bull and the others had heard. Bull was a fantastic fuck, but Dorian hadn’t expected him to -

To -

“Oh no,” Dorian said weakly, when he realized Bull had moved to his side to hold him up.

“You’re a mess.”

“Oh, no, I’m,” Dorian was gasping the words individually even as Bull helped him walk a few steps to the bath. He stared at the tub, shivering. It would be so much _effort_ to take off his clothes when he was this unsteady. To climb in. But falling asleep in the warm water would be so pleasant…

“What are you doing?” he asked, clutching his sleeve in his palm when Bull made to pull off the other arm.

_When had they put a light cotton robe on him?_

“Taking off your clothes,” said Bull patiently.

“What?” Dorian stared at him, his face horrified. “I can’t- “

“Dorian,” said Bull with his best inarguable voice. “I’m going to be the captain for a while.”

Dorian stared at him uncomprehendingly.

“Look,” Bull seemed frustrated Dorian was being so dense. “When the Chargers and I have a bad job, usually one of us gets busted up pretty bad. It’s impossible to try to keep yourself together and still use your brain enough to listen. So one of the others does it for you. We call it being the captain, like of someone else’s brain or life, just for a little while. To help steer them to shore.”

“I’m not a boat,” was all Dorian’s clever mouth could find to say.

“Let me just steer for a bit, hmm?”

Bull didn’t seem like he was waiting for an answer, and without warning Dorian’s legs buckled so that Bull had to lunge to catch him.

“That’s what I thought,” Bull said quietly.

Dorian would have thought he was going to chuckle, but Bull seemed…angry. Was it directed at him? He had been none too gentle carrying Dorian from Adamant. Was it because he didn’t trust him?

“I’m not possessed,” he managed to slur as Bull sat him in the empty chair he had sat in only hours before.

“I know.” Bull was pulling off his trousers.

Dorian realized he wasn’t even wearing shoes. His feet were dirty and cut by stones. He must have done that leaving the healers tents. He hadn't even noticed.

“I’m sorry,” he felt he needed to say again. He was a mess, and it wasn’t Bull’s job to clean him up. He didn’t think any of his friends would do this for him. Honestly, it wouldn’t occur to him to do it for them if the roles were reversed. He would have left them alone to recover. Bull was pushing the envelope of what friendship was.

“Everyone always says they’re sorry,” Bull said, mildly chastising. “I don’t know what it is about being tired and cut up that makes everyone feel like they have to apologize for being alive.”

“For being a burden,” Dorian’s mouth said that one automatically. His mother had said it over and over: “I don’t want to be a burden. I don’t want to be a burden.”

“Look, when one of the guys gets hurt, they go on this dramatic kick of ‘just leave me behind. Just leave me.’ It’s so stupid. If I busted my leg – and I have – what am I supposed to do? Chop off my leg? That doesn’t help anyone, least of all my busted leg. So you just hump it slower and try not to get killed. It’s like that.”

“I’m a leg.” Dorian was so tired. He shouldn’t have used his magic to Fade-step. Or stood up. Or left the healers. Or woken up at all.

He felt something very dark creeping up inside of him and his eyes pricked with tears as Bull easily lifted him into the tub. He held to the sides, shivering and trembling with fatigue and emotion.

“Hey.” Bull forced him to look into his one good blue eye. It was light blue ringed by dark. “Look at me. Are you looking at me?”

“Hmm.”

“You’re going to come apart. Do you get me?”

Dorian shook his head fervently. He wasn’t going to come apart. He wasn’t so weak as that.

“It’s the shock,” Bull explained patiently. “You can’t help it.”

Dorian shook his head again. He wasn’t so weak. He could handle a few demons and being eviscerated. This was stupid. Bull would think –

“Dorian. Don’t fight it.”

Dorian immediately stiffened in the warm water. The Iron Bull would never say that. He _always_ fought. This wasn’t real! He was still in the Fade, this was a demon, this was –

“Dorian, you’re lighting everything on fire.” Bull’s patient voice was very slightly strained as he held Dorian in the tub by his shoulders. “I know you’re panicking. I’m sorry. I can only help so much.”

“Fuck!”

“Fuck,” agreed Bull.

“I can’t- “ Dorian tried wildly.

“You don’t have to,” Bull said. “I’m captaining for now. Can you just shut your eyes? Can you lean back in the tub?”

“What if this is a trap?”

Iron Bull paused from where he had stood up. He had yanked a burning curtain into his hand and dunked it into the tub. Ash spread across Dorian’s shivering legs.

“You think I’m going to hurt you?”

“Not Bull, not _Bull_ ,” Dorian was trying to explain, it was hard to do, everything was –

“I am – “

“Everyone looks- “

“Dorian- “

“What if you’re a- “

“Dorian.”

“I’m going to die in here.”

“Dorian- “

“They were right. I am weak. This is my temptation.”

“Hey. Look at me.”

Dorian glanced up from his spinning vision at the flagstone floor. Bull was kneeling, and he was carefully bringing one hand to Dorian’s jaw. Dorian flinched at the contact, but then leaned into the heat, shivering.

“It’s not temptation to want to be taken care of.”

Dorian began to cry.

“You don’t understand!”

“I know.”

“It _is_ temptation. This is the thing I would- “

“Dorian.”

“W-what?”

“You can cry. But don’t try to rationalize. You’ll talk yourself in circles.”

“But- “

“Can you use the phrase ‘I’m okay?’”

“What?”

“When you need to say something. When you’re spiraling. Say ‘I’m okay.’”

“I’m not okay! I’m- “

“Dorian- “

“I’m okay.”

“Good.”

“I’m okay.”

“I know you are.”

“I’m okay.”

“Shhh.”

“I’m okay.”

Bull quietly scrubbed something into Dorian’s hair as he mumbled the phrase to himself over and over, his voice slowly petering out until he was barely mouthing the words.

Bull scooped him up out of the water still dripping wet and put him back in the chair where a warmed towel from the fire had been draped. Bull carefully tucked a second towel around Dorian as he nodded, barely awake, watching as the Iron Bull stripped the soaked sheets full of red from his bed. He was bemused to watch Bull make the bed up with fresh sheets. Where had he gotten them? Where was the maid?

Bull carefully guided Dorian’s hands through a similar cotton robe and sleeping trousers marked with endless streaks of kohl he had dusted onto them after getting ready every day. They never quite washed out, and gave the soft pants a feathery grey appearance.

Dorian was warm and lovely but when the towels were peeled apart he began shivering uncontrollably. He needed to _tell_ Bull something. Needed to explain he was broken, he was nothing, that Bull should leave him. He would wake up after he passed out, he could put himself together. He could-

“I’m okay,” he tried.

“I know,” said Bull, and lifted him into the bed.

Dorian didn’t want Bull to leave him, despite them not being affectionate or even usually sharing a bed outside of the activities they both enjoyed. To his surprise, not even articulating his need, Bull climbed in next to him, pulling him close to his body heat until Dorian’s shivers were melted up against an inexorable brand.

“You’re okay,” Bull murmured. “I’m here. I’ll keep us safe together until you can steer.”

“I’m okay,” mumbled Dorian sleepily.

“Yeah,” said Bull. “Now sleep.”

Dorian didn’t need to agree. He only wondered if maybe one of the demons had gotten him after all. If they had, they were doing an exquisite job of recreating human breakdowns. And yet there was something so comforting about being cared for. About knowing that Bull had everything in hand and knew Dorian would wake up better, wake up able to take care of himself, and Bull would carefully let go of the wheel with no malice and no control issues.

Dorian nodded again, trying to tell Iron Bull of his appreciation, but he realized his eyelids couldn’t open, and there was a dim rumbling somewhere. At first Dorian thought it was thunder but then he almost snickered.

He hadn’t known the Iron Bull snored. On campaign, Bull slept completely silently. It was Sera who snored. That Bull was letting down his guard enough to snore meant that Dorian was safe.

* * *

It was raining. Dorian heard it even before he swam up out of his sleep enough to crack an eye. His window here had glass, unlike in Haven, and he couldn’t tell what time it was for the light.

The Iron Bull was gone.

Dorian tried not to feel the bitter taste in his mouth as he squeezed his eyes shut and took stock of his injuries. He was much better. Only sore like he had been on a day’s rucking of twenty miles or more carrying a heavy pack. That is to say: everything still hurt. But it didn’t feel like it was coming undone.

“Are you going to get up, or keep closing your eyes?”

Dorian rolled onto his back, surprised. “You’re here,” he said, rather slurred.

“Still the captain.”

Dorian rolled back over, making mumbling noises into the soft white sheets and closing his eyes again.

“You do realize it’s after lunch.”

“Hmm,” said Dorian. He thought about getting up, but why? He didn’t particularly want to see anyone, least of all Cadash who had given the order to keep him bound and drugged.

“Can I come back in?”

“Hmm.”

Iron Bull smelled like the rain outside, and Dorian yelped at his cold skin.

“You’re like a live coal. Come here, I didn’t even realize I was cold.”

Dorian wriggled and flinched as Bull pulled him up against his side, but their combined heat made it comfortable enough for Dorian to finally relax against him. Bull's skin was wet and smooth and Dorian laid his cheek on one forearm with a contented sigh as Bull traced light fingernails over Dorian's back. He tried not to make any sounds that Bull might ruthlessly mock him for purring.

“Your back is messed up, you know.”

“Hmm,” said Dorian, still fading in and out of wakefulness. “Scars?”

“No. Like tension.”

“Oh that wasn’t demons,” Dorian rolled onto his back, blinking sleeping but sardonically. “That was all me.”

“Huh,” said Bull, looking down at him speculatively enough for Dorian to roll back over to avoid the scrutiny. He wriggled his shoulders for Bull to resume scratching. “I guess I never noticed when I was holding you down.”

“Hmm.”

“So are you going to get up?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I hate everyone and I don’t want to go anywhere.”

“There’s lunch at the table.”

Dorian’s stomach growled. “Here in this room?”

“Yep.”

“Hmm.”

The Iron Bull waited.

“Fine,” grumbled Dorian, rolling on a hip to sit up. His vision blacked, and he swayed in place.

“Dorian?”

“I’m fine,” he said, in a voice that sounded like a joke.

“You’re still under-healed. You need food.”

“I don’t feel good.”

“That makes sense. Do you need help to get there?”

Dorian laughed mirthlessly and stood up, almost crashing to his knees. He shot Bull a glower.

Lunch was soup, which Dorian wasn’t particularly fond of, but discovered halfway through a small bowl that it was all he could manage, shaking so badly that he had to put his spoon down to rest.

“Sleep?” Bull offered. 

“You were just teasing me for not waking up.”

“But now you ate, and you’re tired.”

Dorian made a disbelieving noise, then a decision. “Okay, I’m good. I can captain now.”

The Iron Bull glanced at him as if over a pair of spectacles. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Am I going to have to come captain again?”

“No.” A beat. “But thank you.”

“Dorian, you’re not very good at self-care.”

“You’re a dick.”

The Iron Bull laughed. And Dorian cracked a guilty smile.

“I know,” he admitted. “But doing it myself makes me feel less guilty than making you do it.”

“I don’t mind doing it.”

“Right.”

“Like I said, I’d do it for any of my guys.”

Dorian felt the heart aching truth of this, the sting of not being special. “I know you would.”

Bull shrugged, and stood. “Okay,” he said, thoughtfully pushing in his chair. “Do you want me to check in on you?”

“To see if I’m dead?”

“More or less,” but Bull’s voice wasn’t joking.

Dorian had to look away. “Sure. We can- “

“Dorian.”

Dorian looked back.

“I’m asking as a friend. Not so I can get in your bed.”

Dorian wanted to say something witty about him already in his bed. How the sheets smelled of him, but the tenderness of the remembrance brought tears to his eyes. He looked away from Bull, from the casual intimacy he offered.

“Sure,” he managed. “To see if I’m dead.”

“Breakfast tomorrow?”

“If Cadash doesn’t want to see me.”

“No one will bother you,” Bull said it so pleasantly, that Dorian felt a fluttering surety in his stomach that Bull had said something quite aggressive to the others.

“Fine,” he said, as if he hadn’t noticed. “Breakfast then.”

When Bull had gone Dorian buried his face in the sheets where Bull had slept and shut his eyes.

* * *

“Is he alright then?” Sera asked anxiously as Iron Bull entered the Herald’s Rest. Bull took a deep breath before responding. He wasn’t positive it was Cadash asking through her playful half, but he had a feeling.

“No, he isn’t,” he said curtly.

Sera’s hopeful face fell. “More healers?”

“They ripped him up inside.”

“Yeah, I heard Viv- “

“No. More than that. I tried to touch his face, and he looked so scared I had to stop. He lit the bedroom on fire. He thought I was a demon. He half thinks everything is a dream. He can barely stand.”

Sera looked away, embarrassed.

“You all fucked him up,” Bull could hear his voice getting louder. Could hear the bard Maryden’s singing grow strained. In the corner, Krem stood up from his stool.

“I didn’t-" Sera said helplessly.

“He did nothing wrong! He saved your lives in the Fade and you _repaid him like this!”_ Bull realized he was bellowing at Sera, who looked close to tears, but he had raised his voice for the dark face that appeared over the balcony, staring impassively from Sera’s room.

“Chief, come on,” Krem muttered, appearing at his elbow to shepherd him out.

“No!”

“What are you going to do, start a fight?” Krem hissed.

Bull grunted, jerking his elbow out of Krem’s grip but following him outside past a horrified and frozen Scout Harding. She ducked swiftly through the closing door to the Rest.

“Come on, let’s train.”

“No,” growled Bull. He didn’t trust himself not to hurt Krem right now. Not to hurt anyone.

“Come on, Chief,” Krem’s voice was teasing, playful. “He’s only a Vint, like me.”

“Shut up, Krem.”

“Right. Shutting up.”

The Iron Bull clenched his jaw and then made for the stairs. Krem followed him, a shadow, but Bull didn’t tell him to leave, so he stayed.

On the wall, Bull could feel the strong wind buffeting his bare skin as he leaned out between the crenellations and bellowed the huge knot of anxiety and pent up frustration until his voice gave out. The guards on the wall were darting nervous and sidelong glances at him, but Krem was there to shoo them away if any dared to approach. Instead, Bull put his face in his hands, fitting his broad shoulders between the two blocks of stone to press outwards against them just for the feeling of fighting the constraint.

He wished he had insisted on staying with Dorian, but he had been so afraid of scaring Dorian away from the only person he seemed to trust he had agreed to the plan easily. He didn’t hold much stock in Dorian keeping himself okay. He hardly ever did on the battlefield, usually pushing himself close to dying until one of them could pop a healing potion for him to sip, bringing him back to the brink enough to limp back to camp, teeth gritted.

But at the same time, he hadn’t thrown Bull out, like he had with everyone else. Bull hadn’t been the only one to disagree that keeping Dorian bound and drugged was a crap decision, but Sera and Cole could never get along in the best of times, and Varric was busy fighting with Hawke, even if he usually backed Cadash in everything.

But the way Dorian had screamed at the end of the Harrowing while Bull had watched his face rip open like claws were pulling out his tendons would haunt him for the rest of his life. The way he had begged someone, unseen, his wet cheeks _Get out of her._

“Is there anything I can do?” Krem’s voice was very small.

He ignored Krem. Krem realized his mistake half a second later. Bull could feel him wince rather than see it. Iron Bull had hammered it into his guys that asking that question was the stupidest, most stressful question in the world. When people were upset, they didn’t have the brain space to dream up some magical way to help.

“Let’s get drunk,” Krem suggested instead. Suggesting things to an overwhelmed person offered them the control to deny it if they wanted.

Bull turned, his grin feral. “Yes please.”

“Not at the Rest though,” Krem added quickly. “With the Chargers. We’ll set up a bonfire.”

Bull unwedged himself and slapped Krem so hard on the back the younger man staggered. “You’re pretty good, Krem.”

Krem looked relieved even as he used an arm to shepherd Bull to the stairs. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

Dorian was very hungry. Rationally, he knew that going to the kitchens and asking for something to eat would be the smart thing to do. Physically, he ached all over and the idea of getting out of bed was too difficult. Instead he froze handfuls of water like soft ices in Tevinter. He didn’t have any juice but eating something was better than nothing. Using magic took his strength away, and though he fell asleep, he was acutely aware of the lack of food over the past week.

He woke again at dark, and felt his stomach growling. He had slept a long time, and though he was still tired, he knew this time he would need to find food.

It was very far though.

Dorian groaned and forced himself to stand, swaying on the spot. It had been stupid and shortsighted to send Bull away, if at the very least he was already dressed and it didn’t hurt when he breathed.

Dorian took two or three tottering steps towards his dresser and then stopped, wheezing against the feeling of newly healed ribs. He was still flushed with sleep and overheated, so he shirked his shirt and paused, gaping. His entire torso was black and purple. He suddenly felt perfectly justified in his moaning. He had been walloped inside to out.

He couldn’t stand the idea of putting on heavier leather armor or finding clothing to venture down his stairs, through several corridors, down another flight of stairs to the basement, to find the kitchens to ask for food, and retrace his steps. All while possibly running into Varric, Josephine, or worst of all – Vivienne.

“I’ll starve,” he declared, and then hated himself when his stomach gave a loud gurgle.

He managed to get to the dresser where there were a few bottles. To his relief, he discovered a healing potion, which he immediately downed. Only after did he bother to look at the impression in the wax seal and groaned. He shouldn’t have drunk the whole thing at once, it was laced with a calming draft and meant to knit together deep breaks in bones and take in overextended tendons.

Dorian turned back to the bed, suddenly light headed and woozy. It would be like him, dramatic as always, to end up in a crumpled heap on the floor.

 _Lie down_ , his brain offered. Placing his hot, painful and bruised torso against the flagstones instead of half fainting made some sense. Dorian groaned aloud in agony as he forced his muscles to bend. Black spots were winking on and off at the edge of his vision.

He managed to stretch all the way out before the effects of the potion slammed into his head. Dorian seethed, as much as he could, to feel the trace lingering touch of Solas’ magic. He must have brewed the potion special, counting on Dorian’s usually working brain to read the sigil on the seal.

For the third time in as many days, he slept against his will.

There was a shadow in the chair in Dorian’s line of sight. He focused his bleary eyes against the piercing sunlight.

“Ow,” he managed.

“Oh look, he’s awake,” said the Iron Bull, staring down at him.

“What happened to you?”

Bull laughed humorlessly. “I am extremely hungover. What happened to you?”

“More or less the same, but without the benefit of alcohol. I can help with yours though.” He held out his hand for help up as he reflexively checked his magic. It was full.

“Yeah?” Bull didn’t lift his heavy head off one hand. “Okay then.”

“I have to touch you.”

Bull snorted, and Dorian sighed, still holding out his hand.

“The bruises came in full force I see, while I was away.”

“I guess so. Are you going to help me up or not?” Dorian realized even as he snapped he felt better. He glanced down at his torso. What had been deep black and purple was now a regular bruised purple and green. “These look much better, actually.”

The Iron Bull sighed, pushing himself off his knees and then reached a hand down.

Dorian winced, turning his face away. “You do reek.”

“Well lay on the floor then.”

“No, wait- “

They grabbed hands, and Dorian _pulled_ on the alcohol in Bull’s blood. There was a horrible smell of evaporating alcohol, and then Bull grunted.

“Huh. Neat party trick.”

“Help me up.”

“Still have a headache though."

"Dehydration. You need water."

"Oh you mean the water over here?" Bull gestured at the dresser, where the potion Dorian had downed still sat empty.

"Yes. Help yourself."

" _You_ need water."

"Will you help me up?"

"You going to admit you’re an idiot?”

“Yes, yes, I’m a fool. Happy?”

“You going to let me help?”

Dorian’s stomach chose to grumble loudly.

Iron Bull looked dry. “Have you eaten?”

“Of course I’ve eaten.”

“After I fed you yesterday?”

Dorian was silent, and Bull sighed heavily. 

“You must be starving. Get up.”

“I’m try- “ Dorian couldn’t finish the word as Bull pulled him bodily up by one wrist like a doll.

Dorian smiled wryly as he found his footing. “I shouldn’t have sent you away.”

“If I had realized you were that beat up, I wouldn’t have gone.”

“Well, I spent most of yesterday sleeping,” Dorian offered the graceful excuse, but the Iron Bull didn’t take it, only looked frustrated.

“Do you think you can manage the stairs?” He stopped at the faint look on Dorian’s face. “Right. I’ll get us something to eat.”

“Bull- “ Dorian hated himself for doing it. It was a stupid self-preservation instinct and he wanted to tell himself to be quiet, to let Bull help. But the choking fear printed on his grave in the Fade: _Temptation_. Tempting to think he might grow used to the company.

“What?”

“You-you don’t have to,” Dorian fumbled gracelessly.

Bull looked amused then. “Why? Because we fuck? Because you’re worried I’ll think you’re asking too much?”

Dorian glanced away, feeling his cheeks mantle. “Yes, well,” he mumbled.

“Like I said, I’d do it for any of my guys.”

Dorian hated that pang of jealousy as Bull went to get breakfast.

After they had eaten – Dorian far more than he had anticipated – Bull brought out another round of healing potions. This time, Dorian scrutinized the seals on each one before drinking them, gagging slightly at the earthy taste.

“That’s good. And they gave me a salve.”

Dorian looked up from where he had been watching the bruises on his skin fading. “For what?”

“Bruising I think.”

“I’m alright.”

“Still visible.”

“Some aren’t.”

They both heard it, and Dorian winced.

“Look,” Bull said, just as Dorian said:

“I’m glad you stayed.”

They both fell silent, staring at one another.

“It’s mortifying, to be sure,” Dorian attempted lightly. “But…there was a moment when I would have given in, I think.”

“I don’t know what they did to you- “

“Yes you do. Don’t pretend.”

“I only heard your half.”

“You’re smart. I’m sure you’ve pieced it together by now, from what you know of me.”

The Iron Bull was silent.

“Please don’t try to say you’re sorry,” Dorian said snappishly, in case Bull was going to say it. “Or offer to do something. I don’t know what you can – “

“I’m going to make sure you aren’t alone for the next few days. Then we’ll go to dinner.”

“Your party?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

Dorian glanced at the small packed crate with the statuette, still strewn under some clothes. “No, I want to go.”

Bull seemed pleased. “Even with all the people?”

“Yes?”

“And noise?”

“Yes?”

“And drinking?”

“Bull, I wasn’t kept in a nightmare of a party, you know.”

“Right.”

“The nightmares were…more personalized.”

“Right.”

“More…preying on childhood insecurities.”

“Yeah.”

“You wouldn’t have those of course.”

Dorian had expected the Iron Bull to laugh, but he only smiled a rueful half smile that hitched its way up his cheek in ratcheted inches.

“I’ve been thinking about what they would have done to get me. And I gotta say, I wouldn’t have made it out.”

“Yes you would- “

“No.” Bull’s eye was black with its dilated pupil. Some emotion Dorian couldn’t name. “I wouldn’t have. I would have gotten angry. I would have fought. And lost.”

Dorian nodded, averting his eyes as if he could give Bull a tiny modicum of privacy.

“You fought a good fight.”

Dorian looked up at him, an eyebrow raised. “I didn’t fight at all.”

“It’s not that kind of fight. The fight to not rise to it.”

“Oh, that,” Dorian laughed self-consciously. “I’ve had _lots_ of practice with that.”

Iron Bull’s face was so kind that Dorian winced and looked away. “Shut up,” he mumbled.

“Can I rub this on your back?”

“Hmm.”

“Dorian.”

“Well, you won’t like it.”

“Why not? You’ve got lovely skin.”

“I know.”

“So modest.”

“It’s a lot of work to have lovely skin after the Western Approach, I’ll have you know.”

“Sand is a natural exfoliant.”

“Tell that to my thighs.”

Bull laughed, and Dorian relaxed marginally at the easy banter.

“Besides. I feel much better.” It was true. Only some stiffness. Yellowing bruises almost hidden beneath his skin.

“Do you want to go somewhere?”

Dorian cursed himself for the sudden flinch, the wild-eyed look he threw at Bull even as Bull’s face softened with understanding.

“Of course,” Dorian said, recovering himself. “I’ll get dressed. Where shall we go?”

“We don’t have to go anywhere. We can stay in this room for three days if you want.”

“Ah, then what shall we do to pass the time?”

Bull smiled; it was truly wicked. “I’ll have to think of something.”

Dorian couldn’t help the shiver that thrilled up him, but still felt obligated to say: “You don’t have – “

“I know. Krem can handle Charger practices though. Boss hasn’t sent us out anywhere. Everyone is leaving me almost alone as you.”

“Why?”

“I lost my temper with Cadash.”

“You never lose your temper.”

“I _try_ to never lose my temper.”

“Right to her face? In front of everyone?”

“Of course not, I’m not stupid. Can’t undermine the Inquisitor.”

“How then?”

“Sera.”

“At Sera?”

“She asked how you were doing. I sort of…”

“I see.”

“I knew she was up there, hiding in Sera’s bower she’s nested herself in.”

“That was hardly fair.”

“Yeah. I’m going to have to kick down a wasp nest for her, I just know it.”

“A wasp's nest?”

“For Sera. I figure several dozen jars of wasps to add to her bee bombs- “

“Andraste, Bull, that’s going to hurt.”

“Yeah. No more than I deserve, but I’m still not looking forward to it. Have the kid looking out for some nests.”

“Cole?”

“Yeah, him.”

“You don’t even like him.”

“What’s to like? He’s not even human.”

“Neither are you.”

“Yeah, but I’m not wearing a skin and pretending either.”

“Would you like him better if he acted more like a spirit?”

Bull shuddered. “I don’t know. Probably not. At least I can see him this way. Most of the time. Anyway. Let me rub this into some of the bruises.”

Dorian realized he had never managed to put his shirt back on. He threw Bull a glance.

“What? I’m good with my hands.”

“Of that I have no doubt.”

“You know that.”

“Unfortunately, so do several other people who have caught us at it.”

“You love it.”

“Hmm. I love the idea of it. Actually having it – I’m just glad it hasn’t been any of the circle. Or the Inquisitor.”

“Eh, she’d only find it funny.”

“Yes,” said Dorian darkly. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

“Let me- “

“I- “

“Is it something they did?”

Dorian paused. “What? No. Nothing like that.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“You. Really.”

“Oh? I can back off.” Bull literally took a few steps back, the jar lid in one hand and the pungent jar in the other. Dorian could see the burnt remains of the single panel of curtains still under Bull’s boots.

“It’s not that,” Dorian huffed an embarrassed cough. “You’ll laugh.”

“Will I?”

“I don’t know. I’m a little sore.”

“I can rub your back. I’ve never done that before.”

“Yes, that seems to be the very problem.”

“I don’t follow.”

Dorian groaned and dropped his head in the sheets. “You already noticed my back is already tensed up.”

“Oh that? I’ll fix it.”

“Doubtful.”

“That’s some lackluster encouragement.”

“Just be gentle with me.”

“Aching bad, huh?”

“You’re incorrigible.”

“Well, how about we see how well I can take the ache out before I put it back in?”

“Barely acceptable,” scoffed Dorian, still rigid and trying not to flinch as Bull climbed on his knees in the bed behind him. “Hardly any thrill of delight hearing it.”

“Is _that_ the standard for a good line?” Bull asked, and Dorian could hear him smile.

They both fell silent as Bull’s hands began rubbing small circles of salve into a bruise on Dorian’s back. Dorian tried not to shudder when he felt the probe of Bull’s fingers, slowly tracing over the muscles, then down the backs of his ribs, then to his lower back where he sat on the bed. The mattress shifted as Bull leaned back on his heels.

“Huh.”

“Now you see.”

“How did you do that?”

“Years of trauma.”

Bull laughed hollowly. “Must have been. I might be able to pick up the knots on your back like a handful of rice and find layers and layers underneath that.”

“It’s not an undertaking I’d wish on anyone,” Dorian said primly. “It’s best left alone and ignored. If you’re not going to rub it in, give it here.”

He held his hand out for the jar of salve Bull held loosely and, exasperated, plucked it from his fingers.

Dorian busied himself hiding his blush by wiping the bruise salve over a few bruises on his ribs and stomach. He moved onto his forearms and then his legs and then picked up the shirt from the floor to put back on over the sticky ointment.

The Iron Bull forced down his arm gently. “Leave it off,” he said, his voice husky enough to send an immediate jolt of anticipation through Dorian.

“So it begins?” he asked lightly.

Bull only grinned.

“Come here then.” Dorian helpfully hauled Bull up the length of the bed by the shoulder strap of his chest harness, liking the grip of leather in his hand as he tugged him towards his mouth.

Dorian felt his body arch embarrassingly towards Bull at the first taste of his tongue. It had been several weeks since even their interrupted tryst the night of the Adamant charge: even before that there had been separate campaigns and a job the Chargers had undertaken. Not to mention the entire week asleep, the intense stress of the Harrowing, the buzzing feeling Dorian felt knowing that Bull would be his completely for three whole days.

“What do you need?”

“You know, I hate when you ask that.”

“Fine, what do you like?”

“Come now, what is this, a performance review? Just…do something.”

“Tell me.”

“Fuck off.”

“I don’t want to…” Bull hesitated, and Dorian realized what he meant.

“Fuck off,” he said, more angrily. “Nothing like that happened. If anything, this is a distraction.”

“So you need me to distract you?”

“Why do you have to make everything about what I _need_?”

“Because I don’t understand why it’s so hard for everyone outside the Qun to say.”

“What, because it’s that easy?”

“We were taught to always promptly report what we needed. Ambiguity only confused matters.”

“Oh, wonderful.”

“It’s worked well for me.”

“I don’t know.”

“Right. You need me to distract you.”

“If it pleases you to think so.”

Bull breathed in under Dorian’s jaw, scenting him. Dorian realized he smelled vaguely of the bath, of sweating in his sheets, of Bull’s skin in the rain.

He began slowly, which was unusual. Previous sex revolved around limited time and desperate to fuck. Dorian felt his skin prickle up all over with goosebumps as Bull dragged fingertips up one of his sides then down a shoulder, languorously exploring Dorian’s mouth at the same pace.

Dorian pulled on Bull’s leather harness again. Bull grunted acknowledgement and stopped kissing Dorian a moment, then frowned.

“What is it?”

“Nothing.”

“It’s something if you aren’t enjoying yourself.”

“It’s fine.”

“Andraste’s tits why wouldn’t you just say it straight out?”’

“You’re having a good time.”

“I was under the impression we both were.”

“We are. I am.”

“But?”

“I’m distracted.”

“And I’m trying to distract you.”

“Well today I need,” and Dorian paused, taking in a huge breath. Bull smiled at him half supercilious and half delighted. “I need you to be more than your usual bit of distracting.”

“You’re saying step it up?”

“Please. Bring out something in your bag of tricks I know you’ve been dying to try.”

The Iron Bull smiled then, a feral, delighted smile that made Dorian squirm against the sheets.

“Wait here.”

He was gone for half an hour, and Dorian had plenty of time to pace around anxiously, his thoughts swirling in ever tighter circles of what had happened in the Fade; what the Nightmare had said; the thing that had eaten Stroud; the dull dumbness of so much time he had missed. He tried to focus on those miserable things instead of the Harrowing. Anything was better than the way his mother had cried out for help, sending him spiraling into nightmares he hadn’t had for years. The way his father had once looked at him, with hope and pride. The way his chest had fluttered with love for a man who had never really loved him back.

Dorian pinched the back of his neck in the palm of his hand and stared out the window blackened with soot from the ruins of his curtains. How mortifying.

What was he doing? Iron Bull wasn’t his partner. Wasn’t in a relationship with him. They were having fun, to be sure, but Bull clearly painted the barriers for Dorian to see: one of the guys, any of the Chargers. So why was Dorian so absurdly grateful that Bull was pouring all his time into him?

Dorian turned when the door opened, and his face fell before he could catch himself.

“Inquisitor.” He didn’t mean to be cold, but he supposed it was better than several alternatives.

Her unflappable gaze roamed the room, catching sight of the ashes of the curtains as if checking.

“Dorian. I came to see how you were.”

“It’s been two days.”

“Yes, well, Bull didn’t- “

“He told me.”

“Yes.”

Dorian knew this would be the polite moment to ask if Sera was handling it well, but it was a pointless question. They both knew she wouldn’t be.

“And you’re- “

“In one piece. Still able to fight.”

Cadash’s jaw pulsed twice, very quickly. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Yes. But you still put me through the Harrowing.”

“Vivienne- “

“Yes, I will have words with her.”

“She wants to see you.”

“That’s difficult, as I do not want to see her.”

“Solas is furious.”

“ _Solas_?” This was such an odd tug at Dorian’s sense of pride he actually laughed, smoothing his mustache. “What’s he so worked up about?”

“The attack was…unforeseen.”

“Yes, well.”

“The demons were- “

“Spirits.”

“What?”

“Solas doesn’t use the word demons until they’ve fully manifested.”

“Whatever they were, Solas was angrier than I’ve seen him in a long time. He kept you from dying through sheer force of will near as I can tell.”

“Like he did for you.”

“More than once.”

There was silence while they stared at each other. Dorian realized his arms were folded, and Cadash was fiddling with the end of her scarf she liked to wear around Skyhold.

“Dorian- " she began, just as he said-

“I know- “

They both cut off, laughing awkwardly.

“No one could have predicted Adamant.”

“I know. I’m still sorry I dragged you into it. I got a lot of people killed.”

“You didn’t get anyone killed.”

“Anyone?”

“Maybe one. One for a body count isn’t bad. If Sera came back and said she’d only killed one person by accident, we’d give her a sort of prize.”

“She is feral, that one.” Cadash said it fondly.

“But you can’t blame yourself for Grey Wardens killing each other for blood magic. Or for soldiers doing the job they signed up for.”

“I know.” Cadash’s voice was still haunted and quiet, and Dorian hated that it had come to him comforting her.

“Was the death toll high?” he asked briskly, attempting levity.

Cadash shook her head. “Cullen and his men wormed their ways out of some tight spots thanks primarily to you.”

“Ha.”

“I’m serious, Dorian. More than one barrier spell saved a squad’s life. One shot to draw the demon’s attention.”

“It’s not like you sat on your hands.”

“I also think Solas is furious he didn’t fall in the Fade instead of you.”

“He could have gone,” Dorian shuddered. “I never want to see the Raw Fade again. It was too weird.”

“Apparently it was warped by- “

“I don’t care.”

Cadash breathed out a long sigh as she stared at him. “I only have one more apology,” she said, in a tone that tugged a little smile out from Dorian’s serious expression.

“Let’s hear it.”

“It’s more…an explanation.”

“I’m enthused.”

“It’s about…the graveyard.”

Dorian flushed and tightened his grip on his elbows, but said nothing.

“Varric – “

“I guessed.”

Cadash paused. “He said I didn’t have a headstone.”

“You didn’t.”

“It’s getting caught.”

“Pardon?”

“My greatest fear. Getting caught. It’s why I’m afraid of spiders. _Getting caught_ in a web. I mean, spiders are still disgusting.”

“Right.”

A beat.

“I’m a smuggler by trade.”

“Ah, of course.”

“No, no, that’s not- " Cadash looked frustrated, and she ran both hands over her temples through her short dark hair, pushing it into her scalp. “I’m afraid someone is going to catch me at…at this.”

“At what?”

“At playing the Inquisitor. At making decisions that decide thousands of people’s fates. Of ordering people to their death. One day they’re going to wake up and realize I’m just a dwarf from a criminal family.”

“You do have a rather compelling argument attached to your hand.”

“For now.”

“For now?”

Cadash looked seriously into Dorian’s eyes, and he felt goosebumps prickle up. “Dorian, this thing is killing me.”

“No, I’m sure it’s- “

“I forced the truth out of Solas.”

“What?”

“I wanted to chop off the arm.”

“Well?”

“Well, he said that who would wield the power then? Someone else would have to pick it up. I’d essentially be dooming someone else, probably Cassandra, to putting it on them. Signing their death warrant. Hoping they were smarter than I was. And it would just kill them too.”

"It would be Cassandra, wouldn't it.”

"She wanted Hawke for it."

"I've heard."

"I'd give it willingly."

"What, the whole arm?"

She looked at him, and Dorian felt his smile fade.

“So what? You just let it kill you?”

“It’s moving slowly. Solas says when it starts shooting pain into my heart- “

“Andraste’s- “

“Up the arteries of my arm. Like a heart attack.”

“And now?”

“Confined to the wrist. If we reach the year mark, it’ll have grown from my palm to the lower forearm. I could have a few years just up to the shoulder.”

“A few years?”

“I worry too,” admitted Cadash. “I want to defeat Corypheus soon. Before…”

“Dorian?” Bull was returning, and he was carrying a large rucksack over one shoulder. He stopped, nonplussed. “Hey boss.” He said it without any hint of emotion at all, and it sounded wrong without the usual smile.

Cadash turned, and there were several more tickings in her jaw. Dorian flamed up all over and had to turn his face away so he didn’t catch her expression as she neutrally sidled past Bull.

“I leave you in good hands,” she said blandly, but then she ruined it with a salacious wink that made Dorian drop face first onto the bed.

Iron Bull shut the door.

Dorian felt his skin prickle.

“What was that about?”

“A peace offering, I think.”

“What’d she offer?”

“Herself.”

“Fair trade then.”

“You’re still going to have to get those wasps for Sera.”

“Damn it.”

“What’d you bring me?”

“A bag.”

“I can see that. What’s in it?”

Iron Bull’s half smile was creeping up his face and under the eyepatch. “Open it.”

Dorian pulled the bag towards him, smiling coyly. He tried to, at least. By Bull’s expression he had missed the mark somewhat, because Iron Bull very gently lowered Dorian’s arm and pulled the bag back.

“Actually, I’m going to pick today.”

“Something distracting.”

“I know.”

“If you wanted, we could – “

“No.”

“No?”

“Not today.”

Dorian knew that Bull was saying: not for a while. Not until Bull could be sure he wasn’t _really_ hurting Dorian. That their play would be soft while Dorian healed.

Dorian glanced away, clenching his jaw. Sometimes he wished Bull wasn’t so observant, so empathetic. That he would let Dorian hurt himself when he wanted it.

“It’s going to be okay.”

“Of course.”

“Dorian.”

“Hmm?”

“Are you with me?”

“Of course.”

“You don’t sound sure.”

“Just…”

“Distracted, right.”

“Please,” and Dorian couldn’t quite contain the pleading tone. “Distract me.”

This time Bull smiled with his whole face, but small, secret. “Oh,” he promised. “I will.”

He tied Dorian’s ankles to long lead lines around his shoulders. Obediently, Dorian held out his hands, but Bull shook his head.

“Oh come on,” Dorian said, hiding his relief with sarcasm. “Surely you don’t think I’m so weak as all that.”

“I don’t think you’re weak at all.”

Dorian was allowed to lay on his back and clenched his legs to hide his sudden trembling nervousness. This was stupid. It was only Bull, who had managed to wring pleasure from his body dozens of times before.

The Iron Bull pulled a selection of implements from his bag in a way that made Dorian squirm. A feather, a paintbrush, a silk scarf of a deep Orlesian blue. There was also a thin glass rod with a small ball on the end. Dorian regarded it with skepticism.

“You okay?”

“I will say this, you do have my complete attention.”

Bull grinned whitely at him. “Good.”

Bull started with the feather. Dorian wasn’t exactly ticklish, but he was surprised how sensitive his own skin was. Bull drew goosebumps out along his arms, made Dorian suck in a surprised breath across his stomach, made his fingers curl into the sheets when he finally brought it lower, teasing Dorian mercilessly until Dorian was shifting in the bed, desperate either for more stimulation or to get away.

The paintbrush was worse. Bull could vary the amount of pressure he applied as he detailed the underside of Dorian’s shaft. Dorian bucked against the restraints, pulling the black rope taut against his shoulders, whimpering as he tried to desperately keep track of the time. It had been more than an hour.

“You’re doing very well,” Bull said gently.

“Literally fuck me or – “

“Well, you were doing well.”

“You’re the worst!”

“I have something you’ll like.”

“Do I get to- “

“Let me do it.”

“Oh- “

Dorian felt Bull push his feet off the bed and insert the long, slicked glass rod without warning. Bull carefully prodded around until Dorian full body flinched, and Bull hummed in satisfaction, guiding Dorian’s feet back down.

“That’s it?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re just going to leave it in there? You’re not going to- “

Bull casually tapped the end of the long rod so that it tipped up inside Dorian and hit his prostate.

“Fffffffffffffffffffffff,” Dorian managed.

“It’s just an extra bit of stimulation.”

“Uhhhnnn.”

“Do you like it?”

“Yes. Damn you, yes – “

“Do you want more?”

“Yes.”

“Yes what?”

“Yes, you bastard.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Bull began threading the scarf between Dorian’s legs as he shivered. He was leaking precum over his stomach after the torture and he tried to jerk himself away.

The Iron Bull smiled. “What are you thinking about?”

“Now? You want to have this conversation _now?”_

“Why? What are- “

“Nothing! For fuck’s sake, I’m not thinking _anything!_ ”

“Good.” Bull smiled darkly. “Now let’s talk about the rest of the night.”

* * *

Bull kept him dancing on the edge until Dorian could barely see. Every single pass Bull made with a feather or paintbrush, every small seesaw of the glass rod, Dorian could feel himself coming undone, shivering all over, pulling deep welts into his ankles and glad at least he could use his hands to tug weakly on Bull’s chest strap.

Bull sometimes let himself be dragged up to Dorian’s mouth, kissing him with an unhurried patience that infuriated an edged Dorian.

Finally, Bull pushed Dorian's feet up against his own chest, drawing the ropes hard into Dorian’s shoulders and entered him slowly, pushing in until Dorian could hardly stand the pulling of his shoulders, the pushing of his feet, the overwhelming amount of stimulation. Bull hardly needed to rock his hips gently for Dorian to come messily over his own chest and Bull to grunting bring himself off quick and dirty after.

Dorian couldn’t remember the after. He was so bone weary he didn’t even have it in him to protest at Bull’s gentle treatment of him, the slicing of the ropes, knots too taut to undo. He tried to mew a protest: Bull hated cutting the ropes, but he only smiled, only kissed Dorian along the chafed and reddened skin. The careful salves into the deep burns, the soft hands caressing his over sensitive, spasming body until sleep crept over him like a warm blanket full of Bull’s scent.

The next day was hardly spent out of bed. Bull discomfited Dorian by taking his time, of a slow, lazy tracing of Dorian’s muscles while he had Dorian balance a stack of stones on his stomach, chiding Dorian for twitching or letting them fall as Bull aroused him.

"I-"

"Don't talk."

"But-"

"Not even a sound."

"Wh-"

"Try to hide it from me. Pretend you can't feel it. That means every sound I wring from you is one I earned."

The stones toppled off their stack, and Bull grinned at him. "This is going to take a long time if you keep letting them fall."

Dorian groaned.

"Concentrate."

Dorian held himself rigid, his mind screaming at him to _pay attention_ as he tried to keep the stones from toppling. It all went to pieces, of course, when he got too close. Bull kept stopping his excruciatingly slow hands every time Dorian flinched, until finally Dorian sucked in his breath and held it, almost blacking out as he watched the stones while Bull stroked him off. He came so hard his vision left, and apologized for the stones toppling even as Bull chuckled darkly in his ear, praising him for his efforts, and promising it would get easier the more they practiced.

He didn’t even realize until after that Bull had cleverly kept his brain busy.

“Thank you,” he said over lunch.

Iron Bull didn’t need to ask what for, he only hitched his half grin up the side of his face. “Hey, I got a bag of tricks.”

“Since I only got half a night of sleep can I sleep now?”

Bull considered. “You’ll wreck your sleep schedule.”

“I’m a rotten sleeper.”

“You keep saying that, but last night you hardly moved.”

Dorian declined to mention that last night he was so well fucked it was impossible to have bad dreams.

Despite the activities the morning, it took him a long time to fall asleep. It was too bright, for one thing, and then the Iron Bull left to get some things from his own room and Dorian tossed and turned trying to fall asleep before he returned but only relaxing when he heard the door crack and Bull creep back in.

“Not asleep?” Bull asked in surprise.

“Nearly,” Dorian groused.

Neither pointed out the obvious lie.

Bull settled back into the bed and took out documents. He grunted, squinting at them.

“You should get a monocle.”

“What?”

“It’s like glasses but for only one eye.”

“I know what it is.”

“It’s funny because you’re not pretentious.”

“Aren’t I?”

“I thought it was funny.”

“Because I only have one eye?”

“Now you’re getting it,” said Dorian sleepily.

Bull scratched out expenses the Chargers accrued, food and bandages and new weapons, and only with Bull’s comforting presence so near did Dorian feel his whirling mind calm.

He slept.

It was one of the old nightmares. He was in the dark corridor. The tile beneath his feet told him where he was.

 _Dorian_ , his mother whimpered. _Help me_.

The dread of not wanting to enter her bedroom was so strong Dorian could feel his lungs filling up with it.

“Dorian.”

Dorian felt his whole body seize up at that hand on his shoulder, quickly withdrawn. “What?” he slurred.

“You were dreaming.”

“Okay.”

“Are you?”

“What?”

“Okay.”

“Going back to sleep.”

“Okay.”

“Dorian,” Bull said, only that. Only his name.

 _Let me stay_ , Dorian told Bull. _Let me be the hero, for once._

The disgusting bloated body of the spider scared him. He couldn’t hide his fear. Cadash watched impassively as they decided the blood sacrifice between them. The one left behind so the rest could make it out.

 _Dorian_.

 _I want to._ He didn’t. But he wanted Bull to do it even less.

 _I won’t forget you_.

Dorian almost laughed. _Yes you will. A pretty boy you used to know. A fleeting friend. Someone to share your bed with for a while._

_What if that’s not all I want?_

The Iron Bull’s blue eye was piercing with the light of a star beaming out of it as he dissolved. _Is that what_ you _want?_

“Dorian?”

“Hmm.”

“Dreaming.”

Dorian could feel hot drool cupped in his palm where he was lying next to Iron Bull. The papers were scattered between them were Bull’s arms had moved them as he shook Dorian awake. “How did you know?”

“That you were dreaming?”

“Hmm. I don’t move that much.”

“In your bad dreams.”

“You can’t know that.”

“Why not?”

“You don’t stay the night.”

“We’ve been out together. On missions.”

“Oh.” Dorian felt foolish for never considering this. “Right.”

“You do flop around an awful lot.”

“I know.”

“When you’re sleeping light or trying to get comfortable. Kinda embarrassing when I just want to get up and take a piss and I know you’re awake.”

“Sorry.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“What?”

“The dream you were having?”

“How did you know?”

“You get really still, and your breath really slow.”

“That’s called _being asleep_ ,” said Dorian sarcastically.

“Then your eyes move.”

“Move?”

“Twitch.”

“Lovely.”

“Dorian.”

“Yes?”

“Are you- “

“Don’t ask.”

“Okay.”

Dorian did manage to sleep again without too many dreams, but he was restless. He kicked into Bull, not used to a second weight in his bed and turned over so many times he heard the Iron Bull sigh in frustration at the crinkling of paper. Dorian kicked covers off and groped them back on, compromising for a leg out and a pillow over his head, shivering and burning in turns until he grumpily threw the pillow on the floor in defeat.

“What?” Bull cracked an eye. Dorian hadn’t realized he had also laid down in late afternoon. He hadn’t been snoring, and Dorian felt guilty that Bull had needed to be watchful.

“What?” Dorian echoed innocently.

“Are you done trying?”

“Yes.”

“Hungry?”

“Very.”

“Feel up to venturing out?”

“Fine.”

Dorian did not dress with his usual care. He didn’t apply his eyeliner or gel his mustache, and he wore simple cotton robes. His body ached, but some of the ache were the things Bull had done, and Dorian was grateful for the reminder, for the complaint, instead of only thinking about what the other aches were from.

They made their way down to the kitchens, instead of to the Herald’s Rest, which Dorian found oddly touching. Bull was affectionate with the Chargers, never apart from them except when out with Cadash. For him to willingly keep himself apart was …

It was more than Dorian deserved.

“What?” Bull asked, trying to keep hot roast from dripping out between thick slices of bread.

“It’s nothing.”

“You looked sad.”

“That’s just my face.”

“Looking sad?”

“One of those faces.”

“That’s not true.”

Dorian half smiled. “See? All better.”

“It was fucked up, what they did to you,” Bull said after half a minute of eating in silence.

“I agree,” said Dorian mildly.

“Have you talked to Vivienne?”

“No.”

“You wanna?”

“No.”

“Right.”

After dinner, Dorian cajoled Bull into playing chess with him. He missed Cullen, but he also didn’t want to venture across the castle looking for him and being gawped at. Bull’s birthday seemed like the perfect time to make his appearance and pretend like nothing had happened.

Dorian felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up as he packed the pieces back into the box.

“Shall we?” Bull asked pleasantly, but his expression softened when he saw Dorian’s. “We don’t have to.”

“No, _you_ don’t have to. I’m fine, really, I can keep to myself until – “

“Like I’ll fall for that again.”

Dorian winced. “That was stupid of me, I’ll admit. But honestly, it’s been three days, I’ll be okay for two more.”

“Dorian?”

“Yes?”

“Shut up.”

“You don’t have to- " Dorian tried weakly again.

“I want to.”

“But I don’t want you to want- “

“Don’t you?”

Dorian fell silent, gritting his teeth. Bull was too perceptive, and it was painful for him to use it against Dorian like this.

“In the Fade,” he told Bull after a moment. “Did they tell you about the graveyard?”

“Varric mentioned something, but I wasn’t paying attention.”

“There was a graveyard. It was full of the inner circles' names on graves.”

“Maker.”

“Yeah. It was…unsettling to say the least.”

“Was I in it?”

“Yes, I just said the inner circle.”

“And?”

“And the graves had our names…and our greatest fears printed on them.”

“What did mine say?”

Dorian was silent a moment, and Bull’s voice grew harder. “Dorian. What did mine say?”

“ _Madness_ ,” said Dorian quietly.

The Iron Bull stilled. “Ah,” he said after a minute.

“Yes.”

“And yours?”

“ _Temptation_.”

“Huh.”

“It’s because I’m such a decadent princeling.” Dorian tried to inject some humor into the situation.

“It’s not- “

“I am, though.”

Bull took a moment. “Do you know why mine would say madness?”

“Is this rhetorical?”

“You can guess.”

“Seheron.”

“Yeah. I think I did go a little mad there. And I’m always on edge…seeing if one day…I’ll just snap and finish the job.”

“The job?”

“I’m kind of afraid that if I don’t teach myself subconsciously to love my guys – “

“The Chargers?”

“And the Inquisition. If I can’t recognize them when I’m mad…I’ll….”

“Bull. You’re not going mad.”

“Right. Of course.” Bull’s tone was mocking, sour. “Like I said. I wouldn’t have survived the Harrowing.”

“Well.”

They looked at each other, and then away.

The Iron Bull was clever. Dorian sometimes didn’t give him credit enough for his cleverness until he made a silent connection between two disparate conversations. “Are you afraid letting me help you is temptation?”

Dorian looked away, his cheeks flushing.

“Maker’s end,” Bull muttered. “What do they teach you in Tevinter?”

“The usual,” Dorian said lightly, standing to shelve his chess box and then nonchalantly moving away from Bull. He sat on the bed, facing away, as if he was fooling either of them. “Blood magic and slavery. You know. The good stuff.”

“Right.”

“I- " Dorian’s voice failed him as the Iron Bull walked with careful measured paces to face Dorian, then dropped to one knee between Dorian’s legs. Dorian turned his face away from the scrutiny.

“What do you need from me?”

“You can take off my clothes.”

“Not what I can do.”

“I want you to take off my clothes.”

“Now you’re just being difficult. What do you _need?_ ”

“That’s me, the difficult one,” said Dorian, tugging on the chest strap to try to distract Bull from his line of inquiry.

“What do you _need_?”

“I don’t know Bull, what do you need?”

“I need to take care of you,” Bull said promptly.

Dorian felt his mouth twist. “That’s a terrible need. You don’t _need_ that.”

“Like I said. Empathy is the fight against madness. I can’t just think of everyone as walking meat.”

“Is that how you looked at them?”

“Pretty much. It’s how you had to, to do the things I- “

“Bull.” Dorian tried to gentle his hands as he cradled Bull’s head, but Bull wouldn’t look at him. “You don’t have to _earn_ my affection.”

“Affection?”

“Whatever you want to call it.”

“What do _you_ \- “

“Don’t.”

“Why not?”

“Do we have to- “

“I’m not saying we need- “

“I like fucking you.”

“Thanks,” said Bull dryly. “The feeling is mutual.”

Dorian almost added to it, almost admitted to feeling a burgeoning affection as Bull fought off the outside world, but then turned his face away.

* * *

Dorian blinked awake. “Happy birthday,” he cleared his throat as he rolled onto his back. The room was sunny, and it seemed to be late morning. Dorian enjoyed sleeping in, but rarely had the opportunity. He glanced beside him and his heart sunk. The Iron Bull was gone again.

“Thanks,” said Bull. He was sitting by the fireplace in one of Dorian’s deep-seated armchairs. His lap was covered in polishing cloths and there was an array of knives on the floor.

“What- " Bull handed him a glass of water even as Dorian knuckled one eye. “Thanks.”

“It’s before noon,” Bull smiled. “Just a bit.”

“Oh.”

“You were sleeping well.”

“We went to bed late.”

“Yeah,” Bull’s face was wide and encouraging. “That lightning thing.”

Dorian smiled smugly. “I thought you’d like that.”

“You’ve been holding out on me.”

“More like…we’ve been taking it slow.”

“I guess we have.”

“You have a whole bag of tricks and head full of ideas.”

“You’re not wrong.”

“It’s just that every time before this has been fumbling quickly together, or just…I mean the sex is mind blowing. You really have ruined me for anyone else.”

“Hey, you’re no slouch.”

“Hardly a compliment.”

“You’re beautiful.”

Dorian flushed up all over so quickly that Bull actually laughed aloud, dropping the polishing cloth. “It’s too easy,” he sighed, still chuckling. “You handle compliments so poorly.”

“Not true,” said Dorian, struggling to sit up in bed. “I love when people compliment me.”

“Then there seems to be an inverse curve of how much you like someone and how well you handle their compliments.”

“Shut up.”

“See?”

“Come here, and let me give you a birthday blow.”

Bull rolled his eyes. “That was weak.”

“I do like the easy option.”

“Nothing about you is easy.”

“I think that’s a compliment.”

“Oh it is,” vowed Bull. “Because I love a challenge.” He leaned over and used one hand to warm up the back of Dorian’s blushing neck before swooping down and allowing Dorian to drag him back into bed.

* * *

“This is silly,” the Iron Bull groused.

“It’s your birthday.”

“So we should do what I want.”

“Whyever would I agree to that?” grinned Dorian. “And besides. You look handsome.”

Bull harrumphed, even as he ran a critical eye over his reflection in the mirror.

Dorian had helped him apply the Vitaar, painting it carefully over his shoulder with intricate designs in a dark blue ink that contrasted beautifully with his greyish skin. Dorian had also oiled Bull’s horns, pooling polish heavily in the small cracks and binding the bases with leather and gold circlets that he trimmed to size.

Bull had polished all of his knives and his chest harness to a shine. He had even let Dorian talk him into shaving his head fresh, cleaning the light buzz cut stubble after a thorough scalp massage during which Bull had grown hard. He had been absolutely embarrassed until Dorian had laughed into his neck and told him this was a common side effect. But he hadn’t let Bull tumble him back into bed after all the work in his appearance, but did go down on his knees while Bull tried to protest. He had lost his words as Dorian pulled out some of his own tricks, specifically ones Kilant had taught him.

“Are you ready?” Dorian asked him.

“Yeah,” Bull smiled happily. “This is going to be fun.”

Dorian performed a smile for him, and Bull’s own smile faded as he watched it.

“Are you going to be okay?”

“Of course,” said Dorian, fixing his collar in the mirror so as not to have to meet Bull’s eye.

“Dorian?”

“Hmm?”

“I’m going to take you at face value with these.”

“As you should.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“I am not.”

“To me you are.”

"I’ll try not to lie to you then.”

“Then are you going to be okay?”

Dorian blew out a long breath. He turned around. “How do I look?”

“Beautiful.” Bull didn’t even bother to check, and Dorian felt his cheeks heat at the intimacy of the answer.

He smiled ruefully when Bull held open the door to his room. “Then I’ll be okay.”

* * *

Dorian was spectacularly drunk. It comforted him that everyone around him was equally and truly smashed. Cabot hadn’t precluded people from coming into the Herald’s Rest, but Bull’s party was so large that every table was already occupied.

The Chargers were leading a fight song. Sera was dancing with Cadash on the table. Blackwall was laughing so hard he tipped out of his chair. Leliana had cut her hand open trying to juggle knives and Josephine was binding it up with a constant stream of chiding.

Cassandra and Vivienne were both incredibly drunk, and both hiding it by sitting completely still near each other. Dorian refused to meet either of their eyes.

“Who wants cake?” Varric yelled, carrying an enormous knife as Sera and the Chargers squealed: “ME!” at the top of their voices.

A resigned Cabot carried out several different cakes to lay before Bull, who looked delighted at his choices.

Dorian carefully carried a slice of cake in each hand and presented them with a flourish to Vivienne and Cassandra. Cassandra looked startled, Vivienne unusually hesitant.

"You'll have to fight over the flavor," he said, with forced cheerfulness.

"Chocolate," said Cassandra decisively, as always. Then: "Thank you."

Dorian looked at her and nodded. He understood what she meant. That she had killed Daniel with her own two hands, and he had sat through a Harrowing. Dorian was grateful she hadn't volunteered for it.

"Yes," said Vivienne, taking the plate with two hands. A true gesture, for a peace offering.

She smiled with the corners of her eyes and Dorian took a deep breath in. For those in know of the Game, bred and born to it as Dorian had been, there was an implicit apology, hesitation, and at last, as Dorian bowed himself back towards the festivities, reluctant acceptance. It would be a while before he could trust Vivienne again, but they could return to a superficial friendship, if only because everyone else here was an absolute barbarian, as evidenced by the new game Sera had invented: Chuck It.

Chuck It consisted of trying to shoot apples speared on the tips of Bull's horns. Leliana threw knives, Sera arrows, and Varric small bombs. The game was made infinitely more fun because Bull pretended to flinch every time, always carefully moving to avoid an errant shot. Dorian felt it distinctly unfair that he wasn't allowed to do his lightning trick in front of everyone, and by the way Bull caught his eye, he knew they would be chatting extensively about it later.

Cullen stepped up to throw his sword like a javelin, nearly putting out Bull's other eye. Everyone applauded, even as it went wide and Josephine exclaimed: “Please! The walls! The builders have just – “

A mage somewhere in the crowd caused both the apples to explode into sauce, making Sera shriek with glee and everyone else groan in disappointment. The Iron Bull glanced at Dorian who gave a tiny shrug. Bull yanked Dalish up by the ankle as she protested: "I can't do magic! Everyone knows that!"

Cadash tapped Sera to give her a boost up on the table, then cupped her hands around her mouth. “Should we do presents?” Everyone clapped and stamped their approval. "I'll go first!"

Bull took the great axe when Cadash brought it down from Sera’s room with extreme reverence. “Oh boss,” he said reverently. “Holy shit.”

“It’s for killing demons."

“Or dragons,” said Bull.

Dorian could see Sera sourly taking a flight of shots after he had said it, and guessed she and Cadash had a bet going for how quickly Bull would mention it.

“Mine next!” Sera proclaimed. The pants she had made for Bull were _spectacularly_ awful, and Bull beamed.

“It’s funny, yeah? Because they’ll look so stupid!”

“I love them. Should I put them on right now?" Bull yanked at his belt while the Chargers razzed him, throwing food and booing.

"He always does this," Krem said to Dorian with a resigned sigh. He half toasted his beer towards Bull. "Always gets drunk and wants to take his pants off."

Dorian smiled and then said something that made Krem choke on his drink.

"Me next," Krem said loudly, hastily putting down his beer. He mock-glared at Dorian. "Don't you have a present?"

"We're not that kind of -"

"Chief's going to be real sad if you don't."

"Loud and clear, Krem."

Krem slapped Dorian's shoulder so hard he nearly fell out of his chair. Maybe he was more intoxicated than he had originally thought. "You're a good one," he said.

Dorian, wincing, rubbed his shoulder bewildered. "Thank you," he said faintly.

Krem only rolled his eyes and lugged a wrapped rug towards the fireplace where Bull sat in a place of honor. Sera was very carefully and very sweetly bestowing a crown around his horns while Scout Harding worriedly tried to explain that hemlock and nightshade were _poisonous_.

"Oh, she knows that," Bull said easily.

Sera smiled wickedly, and Harding fell silent, her freckles disappearing in a full faced blush.

Dorian glanced around. He had a moment.

“Cole,” said Dorian, and Cole was suddenly next to him. He had been hanging up around the high balcony of the attic level, glancing down wistfully but overwhelmed by the high press of emotion. “Can you go to my room, get the box – “ He clearly pictured it in his mind, and Cole nodded eagerly and popped out.

Dorian watched as Bull received an excellent bottle of brandy from Cullen, a pen with a hidden poison compartment from Leliana, and a new set of Vitaar paints from Josephine, a type of thoughtfulness that was just like the diplomat.

“I have it,” panted Cole, handing Dorian his box, just as the Iron Bull looked up to check on him, an annoyingly sweet habit he’d been doing all night, monitoring Dorian’s discomfort (terrible at the first, but eased heavily by alcohol).

“What’s that?” Krem called, bringing all attention to Dorian, who smiled horribly under the notice. He glared daggers at Krem who grinned like an asshole, his cheeks dimpling with showing so many teeth. "You got Chief a _present_?"

“Hey, I’ve seen that,” said Bull, and then paused, actually blushing, at Dorian’s popping eyes. They didn’t usually refer to –

“Oh, stuff it, you _idiots_ ,” Sera laughed. “I’m sure you saw it in his room these past three days.”

Everyone laughed, even a sheepish Bull, and Dorian forced his legs to walk to the front of the room and shyly hand over the small crate.

There was half a minute of trying to lever it open using forks and then when they bent in half (to Cabot's disgust and Josephine's vocalized distress) changed to using the new obsidian dagger Cassandra had given him. When the lid was open Bull stared down into the straw and sawdust and reverently lifted out the pink dawnstone dragon statue.

"How did you-"

"Vivienne helped."

Vivienne caught his eye and pressed her top lip to her bottom in a silent embarrassed thank you. Dorian nodded slightly in return before continuing.

"She gave her memory of that first dragon, in the Western Approach, and we put it in a little stone for a carver."

Dorian felt sweat trickling down the back of his neck. The loud chatter of the party was suddenly hushed and focused on his story, which wasn't very interesting. Obligingly, everyone oohed at the gift. Dorian was grateful for how drunk everyone was, to be so kind.

He took an involuntary step back in surprise when Iron Bull stood up from his chair. To Dorian’s mortification and secret pleasure, Bull took his face between his hands. He stared down for an agonizing second before he kissed him in front of everyone Dorian knew. The partygoers clapped, whistling and catcalling. Dorian laughed helplessly against Bull's face. He knew it was partially the alcohol and partially his full body blush that squeezed out one or two embarrassed tears of happiness.

Bull pulled back briefly, quickly using a thumb to wipe away the traces before anyone else could see. He leaned forward.

“I think I need something else of you.” His voice was low, and the rowdy song Sera started to lead drown out the worst of the eavesdroppers.

Dorian tried to smirk, but his heart was so full he knew he only smiled. “What’s that?”

“More than sex. If you’ll have it.”

Dorian tucked himself into Bull’s chest in a hug as the Herald's Rest almost came down around them with cheers.

“Oh you old fox,” he murmured so only Bull’s ear could catch the words, tilted towards him. “Don’t tempt me.”

**Author's Note:**

> My sister and I really do "captain" when one of us is upset and failing at life. If one of us is overwhelmed by crowds/too stressed out, the other of us takes over choosing where to eat or how to get away, etc. It's AWESOME. Highkey recommend. We usually say something like "I need you to be the captain right now" and the other one immediately shifts into "Yes, got it. I am on it."  
> "What can I do?" is a personal pet peeve, life hacked by therapy (offering suggestions) also coping mechanism of "I'm okay" when spiraling.
> 
> Also, any and all reviews are stupidly appreciated. I say stupidly in that I keep them all in a folder in my inbox and read them when I'm sad.


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